


Cloaked Heart

by HeadintheCloudsForever



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 123,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24005932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadintheCloudsForever/pseuds/HeadintheCloudsForever
Summary: "Sansa used to believe that glacier blue eyes were ice cold, that they knew no warmth and never shared love. That's what she used to believe. Now Sansa knew that the hottest fires always tended to burn blue." Sansa/Ramsay set in a world of lies, deceit, lust, passion as the lady of Winterfell sets out to tame the wild beast of Bolton and discover what it means to love. Rated M.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 70





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Hello, everyone and welcome to my first-ever Game of Thrones story for the fandom. Set in a slightly AU universe where Sansa Stark desires to tame the wild beast within bastard Ramsay Bolton, for it might be her only shot at surviving her new life within Winterfell's walls ever since the Bolton family lay siege to her family's castle. She will have to learn a new method of survival. Set in a time of deceit, lies, lust, passion, this is the story of how the she-wolf tamed the mad beast within that bastard son of House Bolton. Ramsay/Sansa. 
> 
> I will be posting 2 chapters throughout the week, so stay tuned for those! The story is mostly Ramsay & Sansa POV, with a little bit of Roose and Reek thrown in as well for plot purposes. This is my first ever GOT fic, something I've not written for before, so parts might be a little rough around the edges, but I'm trying my best :) 
> 
> ~HeadintheClouds
> 
> Enjoy!

**Sansa  
**

"Welcome home, milady." Lord Baelish's first words to her hung in the air like a bitter poison, slowly suffocating the Lady Sansa inch by inch.

Sansa very likely thought she would quite like to _strangle_ Lord Baelish, for this was no longer her home. Winterfell's castle walls were the strongest thing around for miles, yet when Sansa Stark looked carefully, she noticed the stones. It was built of stones of varying sizes and shapes, each one of them unique. From a distance, they were all a uniform gray, but when you ventured up close, like she was doing now as she reluctantly took Littlefinger's arm as she allowed herself to be escorted back home, _not home_ , she reminded herself angrily, clenching her jaw shut in anger. _Was our home once, but now with Father and Mother dead, Arya missing_ …the place that Sansa Stark had once called home was no more.

Winterfell's stones up close were a mosaic of humble rocks, each of them nobody would think anything of if they were loose by the road.

But together, they made a powerful fortress, a strong castle, the crown of the landscape and once protector of the great family of House Stark.

Winterfell was more ancient than any bone left in the soil. The once smooth rock ever since the House of Bolton seized the estate had become pitted and scarred. Sansa Stark knew better than most how fleeting time was, how holding onto precious memories was like trying to keep trickling water in your cupped palms. How soon the present becomes the past and the important became the irrelevant. In this hallowed and ancient site, the trees surrounding the castle have seen the centuries blow past in the winds of each winter season and witnessed the folly of the Stark family troubles. Well, now they were about to witness Sansa's.

The walls of her once great home stood mute, water awaited the call of the bitter winter wind to ruffle and move the dead grass, brown from the icy chill.

If this fort of stone built on blood and bone could talk, you would beg for deafness. Though Sansa could not hear the whispers of the ages, tales of lives lost and deaths of agony no one should ever feel, they remained sequestered in the castle's dungeons and echoed around the various staircases of twisted rock.

So much to say and no ears willing to hear, no soul willing to feel the torment that Sansa knew lay within. The past was now a forbidden land.

It was up to the people of all the Seven Kingdoms to look to ahead to the future, though right now, the only path Sansa Stark could see before her lay at her feet, her soft footfalls the only sound in the desolate corridor as they made their way out to the courtyard, along with the occasional murmur of Baelish.

Sansa cast a wary eye towards Lord Baelish, who offered her that odd little half smile that she wished she could so desperately wipe that smug grin off his face, that witless worm, that—that incessant _boorish_ oaf of a fiend who _lied_.

His entire life is built on secrets and lies, Sansa thought angrily. She wasn't quite sure if she would ever forgive the man for effectively lying to her

Baelish was a man somewhat too tall for his build. Were he perhaps a few inches shorter, he would be all the more handsome for it. It was as if he stopped growing only to be stretched on a pair of medieval racks a half-foot more.

Littlefinger met Sansa's gaze with a blunt refusal to avert his gaze first, which only succeeded in boiling Sansa's blood even further. How odd to see those familiar features of Lord Baelish's features devoid of warmth, like they were stolen from him. He had been like this for the last few days, strangely enough.

Baelish's hair was done quite nicely for the simple occasion of handing her over to Lord Roose Bolton, where she would meet her intended, his son. He had some form of oil mixed in to give it a short but noticeable wavy form to the black strands. His forehead was almost square, large, and imposing, but not laughably so. A few lines were laid upon it, but they were dismissive as tricks of the light. Littlefinger's eyebrows were impossibly straight, and his eyes, oh, his eyes! Perhaps the only redeeming quality of this man, and that he had a way with words like no other Sansa had ever known before. Baelish's eyes told of many secrets but held them locked in a strongbox so beautiful that you wouldn't dare to open in fear of what you might find within. The most striking feature of Baelish, however, was his little mustache that Sansa always wanted to giggle at.

It highlighted the frown placed upon his mouth and somehow made Lord Baelish seem more authoritative than his aura already suggested that he was.

If one ventured close enough, his eyes would hungrily envelope yours and pull your feet towards him, just as Sansa had been unable to refuse Baelish's offer to bring her home. It was nothing he did precisely, it just looked as if he had a secret you would enjoy hearing about. And speaking of secrets, the Lady Sansa wondered what secrets her future betrothed held in his glacier blue eyes.

 _Ramsay_. Just the thought of his name was enough to invoke a chill of fear that traveled down the young auburn-haired woman's spine, eliciting a hiss of trepidation from her and an involuntary shudder, of which Littlefinger noticed.

"Is it not enough for you, milady, that you are home? This should be enough. You will be quite happy here with the Boltons, I guarantee it."

 _Lies, yet more of your lies_ , Sansa thought violently, and for just a moment, she had horrible visions dance through the forefront of her mind of his death.

Sansa had felt Lord Baelish's knife before she saw it—that knife with the name of betrayal. She swallowed and looked into the eyes of the wielder.

It was their family friend from so long ago. The eyes that were once filled with a purpose was now replaced with bitterness and hatred, but why, Sansa did not know, though she had a feeling that she could guess. The man harbored unrequited feelings for Lady Catelyn, and Sansa supposed a part of Littlefinger's mind, the one small fraction of an inch that still possessed an ounce of humanity, blamed himself for her death, in some way. "What…what if they are not kind?"

"They will be." His voice was cold and distant. Sansa swallowed nervously and fell silent. The only thing that showed any resemblance to the old family friend was the shell the bitter soul inhabited. The old Lord Baelish was gone.

Sansa decided in that moment if she ever saw Littlefinger in trouble, she did not know if she would help him. She imagined him dangling from a high-rise tower or a parapet, and the only thing between him and certain death was Sansa's outstretched hand. Littlefinger had played a part in the disintegration of her family, and as a result, this had stolen away every ounce of purity from Sansa's soul. She was not certain if there was forgiveness in her soul for Littlefinger.

She didn't think so. No. Certainly not. There was none. Not for _him_.

 _You knew what you were doing, Lord Baelish_ , she thought bitterly _. You rode that—that demon dragon inside of you to new heights of cruelty and manipulation and loved it. The more I dwell on it, the more I see your body falling to the cracked stones below from that high tower. I hope you choke_.

Such poisonous thoughts were quite unbecoming of her and certainly not very ladylike, but it mattered not, for Sansa's life as she knew it was now over.

Baelish had promised to bring her home, and he had lied. This…this was _not_ home. Sansa glanced around the dank, dimly lit interior of the hallway that led out into the courtyard, ignoring the interested glances of men in armor that bore the Bolton family crest, and swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat.

Sansa inhaled a sharp breath that pained her lungs as the pair stepped out into the courtyard. Already, she could see a figure. A taller one and a shorter, each clad in black capes, the garments billowing in the winds of Winterfell's winter.

They said that we live in the moment, that the past was always gone, and each day was something new, a steppingstone into a future you could dream of, even in the cold. For Lady Sansa, that was snow, that was these wintry days of bluster and ice. The auburn-haired beauty saw the earth of yesterday covered white, and Sansa, despite the despair and hopelessness of her current predicament, could not help but feeling a sense of peace and contentment in the snow. The young woman cast her gaze downward as Baelish's grip upon her arm tightened, his fingers curling into an ironclad fist around the sleeve of her gown.

She watched, mesmerized, as her soft footfalls created a few footprints of her own in the snow. Sansa watched them tumble, those feathered crystals, their chaotic flight to form a blanket that could not be more uniform, more orderly.

Yet for some, the snowflakes' destination was to come to her outstretched ungloved hand, to alight upon her pale fingers and let her warmth of her flesh be their spring melt. She was still staring fixatedly at one of them in her hand when the sound of the taller man's coughing once to clear his throat broke the fair maiden out of her musings, and she glanced up with a furtive, guilty look in her eyes. Had she _really_ been that obvious? Sansa looked to Baelish for confirmation.

Lord Baelish gave a curt nod of his head and a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, which infuriated Sansa to no end, leaving the young woman frustrated.

Was there _no one_ in this place that would be a friend to her in these troubling times? No one at all in her home that she could trust at all?

Sansa Stark had heard nightmarish tales of her future husband from anyone who would be willing to listen over a flagon of wine and a hot meal, mostly during their travels to winter, of that bastard Ramsay Bolton. The very man she was to marry. How he took particular enjoyment in flaying his victims alive.

How Ramsay had been good at first. How nobody had suspected a thing, and he could be everything you could ask of a man to be. And when he gained your trust by means of his charm, good looks, and wit, when you had a bound so deep you couldn't run away, that's when the monster within appeared. Ramsay did not need any weapons to hurt you, though he preferred it that way, the torturing. The real power of the bastard son of Bolton was in the man's words.

Just a word, and he would have you crying on your feet, begging him to stay, to do with you whatever he pleases, if only he would put an end to your torment. Even if he would not really go away, you believed it. The simple thought that he could leave you alone to die in misery was enough to make you pray to him like he was one of the gods of the seven. And Ramsay knew it, too.

Bolton knew he could make you an addict to his painful words, to his hits and sweet words right after. It was rumored the man-boy had a fondness for pretty faces, and Sansa Stark's face was admittedly, quite beautiful to behold.

Ramsay Bolton was your torturer, your pain and woes disguised as an angel. And even when you were crying on the floor, wondering why, and praying that the pain would stop, you still fucking loved him, and hated yourself more for it.

Lord Roose was the first to speak. "Lady Sansa. We are grateful to see that you have arrived safely to us. I trust that your…stay will be quite comfortable."

Sansa swallowed hard and blinked owlishly once or twice at the old lord as the older man brought her hand to his palm for a gentle kiss. She shuddered.

"Thank you," she murmured, her gaze dropping to the man's hand, who held onto it a little longer than perhaps she would have liked, but finally relinquished it and took a step or two backward, a strange look in his eyes.

Lord Bolton's expression on his tired, worn, lined face was one of frustration and fatigue, the beginnings of his wrinkles boring deeply into his pale skin.

This man, she could tell, had a story or two to tell over a goblet of wine, experience seemed like it danced on his lips like that of a curious little child. And yet, he stayed silent, those listless eyes of his just watching Sansa, not telling, the light from the fading sun of the day adorning his skin.

Sansa had been about to speak when the younger, stocker, and shorter Bolton standing next to his father spoke up, diverting her attentions elsewhere for the moment. "Milady. Welcome home. It is an honor to have you back where you belong," came the curt voice of Lord Roose's bastard son, and just his voice sent a chill of fear down Sansa's spine. Reluctantly, Sansa lifted her head to look.

The cold look reflected on his face gave her the shudders, and she hoped the look of disgust in her cobalt blue eyes was not evident, though Sansa could not stop the tensing of her limbs or the involuntary scrunching of her nose in disgust. Ramsay Bolton was a bastard who seemed to have no sense of humanity. His heart appeared to be made of stone, the way he brutally flayed his victims, drenched in their garish blood, if the rumors she had heard in the inns of her intended were true.

Sansa swallowed nervously. She would never forget the evil glint in his beady blue eyes. How her future husband—this murderer—had smelled of blood, the thick coppery tang coming to rest upon her tongue as she felt her lips part slightly as she mumbled a formal greeting, dipping into a curtsy.

Though she despised both men standing in front of her, she was a Stark, and Stark women always remembered their manners. She could be courteous, at least.

It might very well be her only chance of escaping this hellish nightmare. To learn how to survive in the company of hounds like these men. Sansa was a Wolf, and yet she never felt more kowtowed and afraid than she did here now.

She almost— _almost_ —would have preferred the company of former King Joffrey Baratheon, who had been king for little of an hour before his demise.

Sansa swallowed hard, not wishing to think of that wretched little monster with the golden blonde locks resembling that of an angel's, forcing her thoughts to return to her current predicament. She was to marry the Bastard of Bolton.

"Milord Bolton," she murmured, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. "Th—there can be no greater pleasure than to…have you here in my family's home."

Sansa felt her jaw lock up even as she spoke the words, hearing the venom drip from her like poisoned honey. She breathed a shaking breath as a lock of red hair tumbled in front of her face as she felt her gaze drift downward to his boots.

The lady of Winterfell could not quite believe her fate. Were the Gods this cruel, to allow her fate to be decided for her, her hand in marriage given to this…this monster, this beast, of whom she was certain she would not last one night in his company before the overwhelming urge to spit in his face was a need.

Oh, how she wanted it more than anything, the desire almost ached. Sansa felt the need well deep within the pit of her stomach and spread upwards, warming her entire body from the tips of her toes in her boots until she could practically taste it on her tongue and the malice of what Lord Baelish, a man whom she had once considered a friend to the Starks, had done came to poor Sansa like a knife in her back, twisted without tear as she looked into the cold icy blueness of her intended's eyes. The emotions in Ramsay Bolton's eyes was fathoms deep, and Sansa used to believe that glacier blue eyes were ice cold, that they knew no warmth and never shared love. That's what she used to believe. Now Sansa knew that the hottest fires always tended to burn blue.

 _Like wildfire_ , she thought wildly as she drew in another cold breath of icy air that pained her lungs as she refused to avert her gaze from Ramsay Bolton first.

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Sansa," murmured Roose Bolton's son, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a surprisingly gentle chaste kiss that sent a tremor of revulsion and…something down her spine, though what that thing was, she did not know. The quip entered a scoff and an eyeroll from his father, Lord Bolton.

It did not escape Sansa's attentions of the way the esteemed lord treated his bastard son and reviled him as some sort of…lesser being, because of his status.

Though if the rumors of this man were true, she supposed she couldn't blame the way Lord Bolton treated his son, if the man had actually murdered his other son, if Ramsay really had murdered his other brother, then the talk was true.

Ramsay Bolton was a monster. A fucking murderous butcher, and this was the man to whom she was to be married in little less than three days? Gods, be cruel to her, would Fate truly be so unkind as to give her away to this man?

 _If_ she could even _call_ him that. Sansa swallowed and turned her head away, only to be met with an ice-cold stare of Ramsay's that matched her feelings.

Sansa would sooner go to the arms of Death and claim it as her bitch lover than anything but to take this creature—this beast—standing in front of her.

She wouldn't. She couldn't. There just…there _had_ to be another way!

Lord Bolton's son met Sansa's gaze, and Ramsay for reasons he could not quite explain felt inexplicably drawn to the Stark girl's icy blue eyes, much like his own. The icy blueness in her orbs generated a feeling like he was being pulled into a lake of frozen emotions.

It was like the myriad shades of blue swirled together to form a whirlpool of apprehension. He could tell by the fair maiden's body language, she who had once been the wife of that accursed drunken wretch, the Imp himself, did not like him, and those flickering azure orbs confirmed Ramsay Bolton's thoughts.

As Sansa thought of Lord Bolton's past action of stabbing her brother through the heart with his own dagger, her lips curled into a twisted sneer that did not become of the young woman at all, and her nostrils flared, seething in anger.

"Milords, I—if you will excuse, the journey has been long, and I should much like to take a walk to…stretch my legs, if it please you, I will take my leave of you now." Sansa bit her bottom lip, sticking it out in a slight pout, waiting.

Her mind felt as if stone were coursing through it rather than blood. Her memories of home now felt disfigured and grotesque without Rob and Bran Arya and Rickon by her side. Sansa kept her gaze off Ramsay Bolton, who was still eyeing her as though he had been momentarily struck dumb, the power of speech seemingly having left his lips, something of a rarity for the young man.

Sansa could not bear to look at Ramsay any longer, because if they made eye contact, she thought that she might vomit all over the man's precious boots.

Disgust. Total disgust. Hate and enmity welled up in the girl's heart, fury itself burning her up until she thought she would very burst into flames here.

Lord Bolton gave a curt nod, giving the girl silent permission to leave them be. Ramsay's father watched Lady Sansa curtsy gracefully towards Ramsay, and he sneered. The wolf is back in her cage, the esteemed lord thought angrily.

For just a moment, the old lord felt… _something_ towards Sansa Stark. Desire. Yes. Lust and desire for this budding beauty of a rose, this white she-wolf. He did not know what possessed him to offer the Stark girl as a bride to Ramsay, perhaps he thought the responsibility and distraction of having a wife would quell the boy's insatiable bloodlust that could not seem to be quenched, despite it all. Oh, Lord Roose could see that Ramsay often tried to make an effort, that he was 'sorry' for the things he had said in a rage to his father the night before, how he just wanted Lord Bolton's acceptance, to be seen as his legitimate heir, but…

Roose did not deny admitting to himself that he wanted things to go back to normal, but he could not. How could he, for his son and his wife were dead?

He was married to Fat fucking Walda, who it was rumored was expecting via the maester, though Lord Roose Bolton had yet to reveal their news to Ramsay.

All he felt towards Ramsay was bitterness, and with each passing year it grew like a festering wound, pushing on the side of Roose that was serene, enveloping the lord in a strange toxic darkness, until all that was left was a disgusted self-loathing. Though perhaps he would begin to see a change in his son yet with the Stark girl. By the Gods, he could only hope so, or else there'd be seven levels of holy hell to pay. Only time would tell. He heard Ramsay let out a tired sigh.

The question he asked of his father was unlike him, the handsome boy's face a contrasting mix of restraint and desire, ice-cold blue eyes that were devoid of warmth and anything that even resembled an inkling of human kind were still fixated upon Lady Sansa Stark, eyeing her figure in her fur-lined cape and her simple blue gown.

"Do I deserve her, Father?"


	2. Ramsay

**Ramsay  
**

The bastard son of Roose Bolton could not quite explain why the skin of his palm where his hand had brushed against Sansa’s tingled like fire, and his heartbeat so erratically in his chest that he thought it might fly out. There were goddamn lions in his chest. He had needed a moment to clear his head of these fucking infuriating thoughts that pounded against his skull like the back of a stone, and he had decided to talk a walk to try to calm himself down. Usually, when he got this way, he summoned Myranda to his chambers and fucked her, taking her on her back, on her side, any way that he wanted her, because the kennel master’s bitch was _his_ , no one else’s. However, that did not feel like it was enough for the Bolton man this evening as the sun set below the horizon and dipped below the edge of the land. Usually, whenever he was with Myranda, the facades they showed the rest of the world melted away the minute the doors to his chambers closed and all they wanted was to fuck each other’s brains out. Every kiss, every nip and bite that drew blood had a raw intensity—breathing fast, heart rates even faster.

He loved to hear the kennel master’s daughter moan how whenever his hand would enter from below, moving fast, their tongues entwined together in a passionate kiss full of lust, and then it was never long before Ramsay forced himself Myranda in one good thrust, her walls stretching to accommodate him, like they always did. Ramsay enjoyed hearing Myranda’s moans timed to his body. He would occasionally stop kissing her breasts and her stomach, his hands almost teasingly light, then he would lick any spot he could reach, hungry for her, using his fingers all at once, watching Myranda’s shocked reaction, feeling how her legs move, watching her slender body writhe. Ramsay liked to tell her he was going to make her beg for it, and Myranda would usually let out a moan, unable to articulate a response.

That’s when he unleashed his inner beast, that caged repressed demon that only came out behind closed doors, on top of the kennel master’s bitch of a daughter again, fucking her even harder, just long enough to intoxicate her mind before stopping again. If it’s begging he wanted, he knew he was going to have to stop long enough for her brain to start working again first. These were the kinds of games he loved to play. That usually was enough to quell the rage and lust within. For a while at least.

But… Not tonight. Ramsay could not quite explain it, but he knew if he had to look upon Myranda’s face and smell the scent of dog lingering on her person, he would just scrunch his nose in disgust and tell the bitch to get out. Unmarked tombs lined the eerie sort of graveyard, and mold covered the engravings dedicated to the dead, leaning towards the mausoleums. The branches reached out to one another. The spiked, black fence surrounded the little graveyard almost like it was a sort of prison. The smell of old stone lingered in the dry air, weeds covering the tombs of the dead, loved ones long since stopped visiting, though now perhaps that Lady Sansa had returned home to the place of her roots, the place would not be so barren. Ramsay came here when he needed to clear his mind, for it was the one place in the estate aside from the Wood that he could think without his fucking father breathing down his neck, making him want to lash out at anything in anger and strike out at something, preferably Roose. The one place where Myranda couldn’t bitch at him and whine for attention, though on a normal day, he wouldn’t have hesitated at the thought of plunging himself deep inside her, feeling her folds, her wetness, hearing her scream his name, not giving a damn who heard the ungodly screams from his chambers. But not tonight. Something about him felt…off, ever since the damned Stark girl’s arrival. So, he had decided to venture outside for a little fresh air to this place of death and torment. A little piece of his own safe sanctuary, a bit of heaven, right in his own background. The one place where he felt like he could truly just…let go.

Except that Ramsay was not alone on this night. He had not anticipated anyone would have been out in this inclement weather, given how fucking bloody cold it was out here, so he was surprised to see _her_ , that more lovely sight that awaited him instead of all these tombs buried beneath the pristine white snow of Winterfell. Here she was, his beauty, the gods’ masterpiece. The finest woman in all of Westeros, or so he had been told. His bride. His Sansa. Her emotions were not easily hidden on her innocent face. Her pains of life were evident in the creasing of her lovely brow and the down curve of her full, luscious pink lips.

Ramsay’s fingers twitched as he curled them into a fist as he fought back the urge to reach up and trace the outline of her lips with the tips of his fingers, to see if her pristine lips were really as soft as they looked. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had (albeit foolishly) promised his father he would not touch the girl until their wedding night.

Thank the Gods it was only a few nights from now. Ramsay tore his gaze away from the divot of her lip and upwards towards her eyes, those brilliant azure orbs of pure cobalt. Sansa Stark’s eyes showed her soul. They were a deep pool of restless blue, an ocean of hopeless grief. Grief, it should be noted, that Ramsay’s family had had a hand in planting there when they had seized Winterfell. When Father had plunged his dagger into her brother’s heart, destroying her. Ramsay swallowed hard past the lump forming in his throat as he looked at the woman, that beauty with the red locks that smelled of jasmine and honeysuckle, even in winter, setting his face to something that resembled a perfect impassiveness, a look that he had perfected whenever around Father.

His blue eyes drifted downward towards her hands, which were folded neatly in her lap as she sat perched on a stone bench, a glum expression on her face. As Ramsay met Lady Sansa’s gaze, he knew, all the beauty of all the Kingdoms could not even hope to compete with this simple concept: passion. Passion turned the woman’s eyes into orbs of the brightest blue fire, and in them, Ramsay Bolton read clearly that she would fight to the very last tear for her life if it came to that.

He sneered, his lips curling upwards into a slight sneer. _Good_. He liked his women with a light fight and feistiness to them. He hated the weak ones, especially the virgins, who always cried during their first fucking. Sansa Stark would not let the world break her. Sure, she could cry, but Bolton knew she would never let them take her true self from her. She clung to that with passion like her life depended on it. Passion that at least in Ramsay’s eyes, made her beautiful and that much more frustrating for the bastard, for he felt like he did not deserve such a creature. He knew what he was. A monster. Every bit the bastard his father claimed him to be, which gave him pause as to why Roose had offered Ramsay the Stark girl, their one last key to maintaining their hold upon the North, once they dealt with Stannis fucking Baratheon and his fucking armies.

Ramsay stifled a low growl from the back of his throat, careful to remain hidden by a rather large overgrown bush. She hadn’t seen him yet, and it would stay that way until such a time when he chose to reveal himself to his bride. But for now, he was just content to watch her here.

He furrowed his dark brows into a frown as he looked upon his bride. Sansa Stark wasn’t beautiful in the classical way. No flowing golden curls, no piercing eyes of green like the type that he usually tended to lust after.

However, in her ordinariness, she was a stunning little beauty, there was no point in Ramsay trying to deny that much of his future wife.

Something radiated from within Sansa that rendered the noblewoman irresistible to both genders. Men desired her; women courted her friendship. _If the gods are real_ , Ramsay told himself _, then this woman sitting before me is their masterpiece._ _And I…I shall be Sansa’s god_.

Lord Bolton’s words prior to the Stark girl’s arrival resonated with Ramsay’s mind, refusing to part from the bastard’s thoughts. “My son, it is beyond you to give me a compliment, because these insults lessen us both.” At his father’s words, Ramsay furrowed his brow into a frown. If he married this Stark girl and impregnated her with a babe, would that then gain acceptance and admiration in Lord Roose Bolton’s eyes?

Sansa Stark had a kind of understated beauty, perhaps it was because the girl was so disarmingly unaware of her natural beauty. Her pale skin was completely flawless. She was so white, with her skin like that of whipped milk, and Ramsay wondered if he were to reach out a hand to touch her, to graze the soft skin of her prominent collarbones, if he would only graze the air, as if Sansa Stark were nothing but a ghost.

The woman with the fiery auburn hair that flowed freely about her face, the wind whipping it about haphazardly about her face, though she did not seem to mind, was all about simplicity, making things easy, helping those around her to relax and to be happy with what they had.

Perhaps that was why the girl’s pale skin seemed to glow so, it was her inner beauty that lit those brilliant blue eyes of hers and softened her features. When she smiled and laughed, which Ramsay had yet to see for himself, though Lord Baelish had informed him that her smile was bewitching, supposedly you could not help but feel that you too were someone of great importance, that you had been warmed in summer ray’s regardless of the eternal winter that seemed to rage up here in the North.

Sansa was the kind of young beauty other women loved to hate, Ramsay surmised as he watched the fair-skinned, auburn-haired woman rise from her seat, brushing her palms on the skirts of her dark blue gown.

 _Blue is a good color for you, milady_ , Ramsay thought, the beginnings of a twisted smile forming on his lips. He knew just the color to demand she wear on their wedding night. Ramsay Bolton had been all logic and feigned cold detachment until their fingers had touched when he’d brought Sansa’s knuckles to his lips for that introductory kiss, though it had taken all of his willpower not to clamp his teeth down on her fingers, to taste her blood. Though that time would come, he needed to be patient. Ramsay drew in a sharp breath of cold air that pained his lungs as he looked at the fair-haired maiden that he would marry very shortly.

When he had touched her hand earlier, something foreign and unfamiliar stirred not only within him, but it overtook Ramsay’s thinking. The rest of his world became an unimportant blur that was banished into the far corners of his mind. The only thing that mattered anymore was finding an excuse to keep the Lady Sansa by his side. To touch her more, to taste her honey sweet sin with his own tongue.

Ramsay felt his entire body stiffen as the young woman began to walk back towards the estate, leaving the courtyard and making to head back towards Winterfell. It was then that he began to have highly inappropriate thoughts of the luscious beauty. He wanted Sansa on her back, he wanted her on top, Ramsay wanted her any way that he could take the girl for himself, really. To claim her fully as his for life, and she would be his.

As Ramsay continued having these wild thoughts of the Stark girl, he knew it was the inner beast that lay caged within the confines of his chest, threatening to come loose, given that it had been at least a fortnight since he’d flayed someone or fed a worthless piece of shit to his precious dogs.

Ramsay had insisted to Roose Bolton they throw a lavish feast to announce to all of Winterfell and spread the word in the North of his engagement. He had expected resistance on Father’s part, but shockingly enough, Lord Roose Bolton had agreed, and had gotten a weird gleam in his eyes that even Ramsay wasn’t quite sure what to make of, but it mattered not. At least until a thought struck him he’d not thought of.

Lady Sansa Stark would be in the company of other young eligible men and nobles, and just that thought was enough to send the young Bolton bastard flying into a rage and he felt his blood begin to heat up in his veins as an insurmountable anger threatened to consume him. Ramsay felt his jaw lock and tighten, and he ground his teeth in anger, his blue eyes flashing indignantly as they stayed locked up Sansa’s retreating form, his gaze drifting to her ass. She really did have a petite, curvaceous figure.

No girl was she, not anymore. Her large liquid blue eyes held such an intelligence and serenity that Ramsay felt like it had been impossible for him not to be held prisoner by them. Which would explain his momentarily lapse of inability to form a cohesive sentence around the Stark girl. Her cheekbones weren’t especially high, and her nose was a little too long to be perfect, but there was an undeniable symmetry to Sansa Stark’s delicate features, like that of a pretty red rose, just waiting to bloom, to fully become…a woman.

Perhaps that was what had Ramsay Bolton so captivated. Sansa Starks’ smooth dry skin despite the harsh currents of the ferocious winter was dotted with a light smattering of freckles about her nose. Her delicate eyebrows curved in swooping arcs over those bewitching eyes and her small button nose complemented her wide forehead and rather blunt chin. These features would not turn heads, or make anyone look twice, they were quite normal among the women in the Stark family. No…it was the Stark girl’s eyes that were her true prize, what held Ramsay Bolton, bastard son of Roose, so captivated.

What secrets would he uncover, as he looked behind them? He couldn’t wait to find out. Her eyes were like the stars in the night sky, the way they drew unsuspecting men like Ramsay in to explore the swirling depths of emotions held in her depths. The black of Sansa’s pupil was surrounded by a ring of jagged silver fire swallowed by sapphire blue.

At one glance, the girl’s eyes merely shone, but if you dared to look closer like he had done so earlier, and just like he was doing now, shrouded in the shadow of the bush behind which he had taken refuge, Ramsay could see the sadness of heartbreak, the joy of love (at that he scoffed again), the hope of a better future for herself, the pain of sorrow at losing not only her home but her family as well, and the fire of a spirit that even Ramsay knew the girl would not give up.

At least…not willingly.

She currently wore her red hair pulled upward into a loose messy bun of sorts to keep it from haphazardly blowing in the wind this way and that, but in Lord Bolton’s mind, it was long and fluid down her back, lying gently over her shoulder bones, kissing her soft skin, already imagining thoughts of future bruises to impart upon her.

It had been all he could do not to ravage himself at her when he’d first laid eyes upon the fair-skinned beauty with the locks of hair that looked as though they had been kissed by fire. Sansa Stark was a beautiful young girl. And after their wedding night, she would be a woman. It was rumored that the girl was still a maiden, though he wondered if it were true, or if this was another falsehood encouraged by Roose to provoke his son. Ramsay wouldn’t put it past Roose Bolton to try such a tactic.

His father’s lack of eye contact should have warned him over the years growing up in his father’s shadow. It wasn’t natural to avert your gaze from one you claimed to love. _Love_. At that thought, Ramsay felt his lips curl into a twisted smirk as he scoffed and rolled his eyes. A concept for women, that false emotion that Ramsay Bolton knew did not exist.

In his father’s moments of quiet rage, Ramsay felt…dehumanized. Maybe it was why he was the way that he wasn’t, he didn’t know, nor did he give a shit, really. Ramsay’s methods of torturing their prisoners and his mindless fucking of all the kitchen wenches and serving girls gave Roose the distance from Ramsay’s heart and soul…if he even had one to begin with. Sometimes he wondered if he did nor not, with the things that he’d done and derived pleasure from. Things that would turn the stomach of any normal man in the entire North. But no matter. He couldn’t help how he was. It was far too late for a man like him to change. Not now.

Growing up, Ramsay had given Father everything a son could possibly give his parent, and only wished he could do more to please.

Now he had to know that the person he idolized never truly existed. That their life of the endless political council meetings, bloody wars, talk of siring heirs to keep the family lineage going was never what it appeared to be, that his father lived with festering anger in his heart like a wound. Conversations were just talk to Ramsay, competitions to him. Nothing more, and nothing less. Roose saw his bastard son suffering, his mental health in decline as young lad and he had made goddamn sure that Ramsay had fallen into that pit, the only decorations in the pit his own godforsaken claw markings from his nails on the walls he could not scale.

Now Father had the gall—the audacity—to claim that his methods growing up didn’t drive his bastard son mad, that it was just ‘how he was,’ and there could be nothing in all seven kingdoms that would cure of him of this so-called horrible affliction, this unquenchable bloodlust.

Roose liked to think of himself as Ramsay’s savior, but his son knew the truth. How Father cycled from abuse to reconciliation and then back to abuse, to build him up just enough for the next stress-relieving power trip take down that usually involved the flaying of a man in the dungeons.

But Ramsay had news for his father. His heart had long since been hardened, and the beating corded muscle within his chest had walls.

He had walls against Father and any other human within the kingdoms and there was no way to break down that wall. Knowledge can indeed be power, if you so let it, and Ramsay Bolton had, in fact, let that be so.

Ramsay furrowed his brow into a frown at that rumor, wondering if it was in fact, true. He knew she had once been married to that hellish Imp.

 _Tyrion fucking Lannister_ , Bolton thought and released a low growl from the back of his throat at the thought of that creature who was less than half a man taking this woman, this celestial-like being who had for reasons unknown somehow managed to snare him in a net of intrigue like one of those mystical sirens of the sea he had heard as a child growing up in the tales of old, and this had unfortunately, Lady Sansa’s ears perked up at the nose and she froze at the sound, though from which direction it had come, she could not quite tell. He would just have to make it quite plain and perfectly clear to any man with a cock between his legs and a pair of wandering eyes that Lady Sansa was no longer available.

That _she_ was _his_. And anyone who would dare try to take the dog’s prized bone from him would find themselves without their dick on the morrow, their own balls stuffed down their throats so that they choked.

“Get a fucking hold of yourself,” he whisper-hissed through clenched teeth as he watched the Stark girl resume her rather leisurely pace through the courtyard, seemingly making to head back towards her room.

His mind felt as if stone were coursing through his veins instead of blood. Ramsay glanced downwards once the Stark girl had vanished from his line of sight completely. He was half of a mind to follow the girl, to corner her in some decrepit hallway of the castle the smelled of dank mold and shit and piss and the gods knew what else ever since his men had taken it over, and he caught sight of his reflection in a puddle of mostly melted snow and blanched, looking caught off guard at the man he saw staring back at him. The shadow of the caged beast within his eyes. He felt his stomach lurch and he thought he might vomit.

There was the smallest fraction of Ramsay’s mind that knew what he was and hated it. Disgust. Yes, that’s what he felt for himself. Disgust.

Total disgust with himself, at who he really was, what he represented. Ramsay felt his shoulders slump and his blue eyes cast downward in a mournful gaze, his handsome face held a forlorn, worn expression now.

His mouth was set in a semi-pout as he remained alone in the courtyard of Winterfell, fighting against his urge to follow Lady Sansa.

It would be easy enough to claim her for himself. A few sweet words whispered into the ear of his little lady wife—well, soon to be, that is, and he would slip her out of her gown and let it fall to a crumpled heap on the floor and he would fuck the auburn-haired beauty so hard until she screamed his name, and his urge would be satisfied and that was that.

But…and this was the part he was struggling to accept the most, that he had seen something in the Stark woman’s eyes that could only be described as hatred. A look that he had not seen in a woman before.

At least, not directed towards him. Most of the whores and strumpets in the North were absolutely fucking terrified of the Bastard of Bolton, and it showed in their eyes, their movements, how they averted their gazes whenever they were forced to be in the same room as Ramsay.

 _But not this little dove_ , his conscience offered unhelpfully. _There had been that look in the courtyard earlier this afternoon when she arrived_.

Sansa had been rumored to be quite the beautiful girl but seeing her up close and personal like this only reinforced that truth in Ramsay’s mind. The woman was of fair complexion, long wisps of auburn that always seem to gleam when they captured the light just right, like her hair had been set ablaze. She had the kindest pair of brilliant blue eyes, trimmed by long gorgeous lashes. Lovely eyes, innocent and pure, yet somehow gentle, that always held a tiny warmth within them, of which Ramsay knew he wanted it for himself. If it could be made possible to bottle that warmth and hoard it within a glass vial that he could keep in his pocket, then he would do it. Florid cheeks and flawlessly sculpted pink, luscious lips, as if crafted by angels and the gods themselves.

Standing this close to her as he had been only moments ago, he could see Sansa’s lips clearly, glistening attractively with a light salve coating that added a further sheen to her already healthy lips. Ramsay imagined biting her mouth until he drew blood and then sucking it from the wound.

All these features sat together on a delicate almost angelic face.

And Sansa Stark would be all _his_. Oh, such sweet, sweet bliss…


	3. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Hello everyone and welcome back to Cloaked Heart. It is here that things will begin to pick up just a little bit, though rest assured, it's going to be a while yet before Sansa even begins to remotely* trust Ramsay Bolton, as he is still very much a bastard in this story, but its' up to the Lady of Winterfell to thaw the ice around his heart bit-by-bit, and it's definitely not going to be a change that happens overnight. I don't want to make Ramsay too* soft and stray too far from his character, but at the same time, I don't want to make him this mindless violent psychopathic murderer with no thoughts or emotions, so in the next chapter we'll be getting into Ramsay's head and learn what he's thinking after this little 'encounter,' but for now, Ramsay is still very much a creep and is going to behave as such.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**Sansa**

The silence of the hallways that Sansa could practically walk blindfolded and backwards if you asked that of her currently made her blood as cold as the winter cold air that crept through an open window.

Winterfell’s eerie silence gnawed at Lady Stark’s insides, hanging in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. The silence was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything, but to listen to the deafening sound of nothing.

For there was nothing that could truly describe nothing, now, was there? No. There wasn’t. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and actively averted the gazes of several of Bolton men, soldiers, all of them.

A few of the women threw her sympathetic pitiful glances, but she wanted or needed not their pity or a shoulder to cry upon. She wanted a friend, someone who would help her escape from this place. Sansa knew she had wanted to leave from the moment her boot had alit from Littlefinger’s horse. She wanted to plead with Lord Baelish to turn around. But he hadn’t, and she had stupidly agreed, so, for better or worse, here, she was. The silence continued to be poisonous to Sansa in its nothingness, cruelly underscoring just how vapid the conversations around her had become, of which Sansa had only caught snippets of.

The silence was eerily unnatural, like a dawn devoid of birdsong. It clung to Sansa like a poisonous cloud that could at any moment choke the life from her lungs, though not that you would find her complaining.

It seeped into her every pore, like a poison that slowly paralyzed the young noblewoman from either speech or movement. When all she wanted to do was run. Just flee the place and make for the woods. To see how far she would get before Bolton would send his hounds after her.

Bereft of any wind, the leaves outside, what few of them were left on the barren dead trees of winter hung limp until they fell of their own accord, and there was no whispering or rustling. It was as if nature herself conspired to keep Sansa in the dark, not daring to whisper into the shell of her ear the reassurance she so desperately craved in this foreign place.

Then hurried footsteps as she lingered outside of the mess hall and the squeak of the wide pair of double oak door’s hinges gave a horrible creaking noise, alerting Sansa to another presence in the room, and brought her heart racing as fast as an arrow that had been fired from a crossbow. At that mental image, she felt a tremor of fear go down her spine, for it had not felt like all that long ago that she had stared Death in the face, staring at the loaded tip of an arrow, that crossbow held by none other than King Joffrey, right before that childish boy had demanded his king’s guard to beat her senseless within an inch of her life. Were it not for his uncle, Tyrion Lannister himself interfering when he had, well…

She might not even be here were it not for the Imp.

At the thought of Tyrion, Sansa felt her brow furrow into a frown. Like it or not, she owed the man a debt that one day she hoped to repay.

Of the entire family of wretched lions, Tyrion had been the only one of the Lannister’s to treat her with any decency and a modicum of respect. She could acknowledge that much, her hatred and disdain for that entire family aside for right now. Right now, a brand new problem was staring her directly in the face, and that problem’s name was Roose.

Sansa swallowed the lump forming in her throat and quickly dipped into a low graceful curtsy. “Milord,” she mumbled, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks as her gaze drifted down towards the man’s boots, not wanting to meet Lord Bolton’s eyes, for fear of what she might find there.

To her surprise, which admittedly made her fear deepen and raise her hackles in defense, prepared to flee if she must, Lord Bolton broke into a wide, seemingly genuine coy little smile that suggested he knew than she did. Sansa wasn’t quite sure if she should be flattered by his smile or unnerved. She had never quite recalled Lord Bolton ever smiling once.

“How does it feel, milady? To be back home?” Lord Roose asked, pulling out a chair at the great table. He was seemingly interested in making conversation, and she could detect not a hint or trace of malice in his deep baritone voice. “I hope that you find your quarters to your liking. It must be strange for you to be in such a foreign place after so long away.”

Sansa felt her brows knit together in a light scowl and her lips pursed into such a thin line that she was quite certain they probably disappeared.

“This is my home, where I grew up, Lord Bolton. It’s…I—I’ve been looking for the— _oh_.” Her voice cracked and faltered as the doors swung open for a second time and the younger Bolton entered the room. Ramsay’s blue eyes lifted slightly and met hers, and Sansa inhaled a sharp breath that pained her lungs as she repressed the urge to shiver. She would not give this man the satisfaction of seeing just how much her future intended unnerved. She wanted to know if it was true.

If he had really hung one of the kitchen wenches for coming to Ramsay stating she was pregnant. A quick glance towards the closed door as the younger Bolton man quietly closed the door to the mess hall quickly confirmed everything that Sansa needed to know. That these men had no intention of letting her leave. She swallowed and looked to him.

When she dared to meet Ramsay’s gaze, she felt drawn to those blue eyes yet again, for reasons she could not quite explain. The icy blueness she saw in them generated a feeling like she was being pulled into a frozen lake of emotions, like all the shades of blue that she could think of swirled together. Sansa could tell by Ramsay’s body language that he did not like her, or perhaps didn’t trust her, maybe a combination of both.

Either way, those flickering azure orbs confirmed her thoughts. She was in serious trouble if she could not think of a way to talk herself out of this situation. Sansa did not fancy being trapped in the mess hall with these two, though she doubted Ramsay would throw himself at her with his father present in the room, but she was not about to test that suspicion. Not so long as she valued keeping her tongue, for she knew if she spoke out against the Boltons, she would likely lose the appendage. There was a cold burning to Ramsay Bolton’s rage. An ice that scared Sansa if she was being honest with herself. She’d seen that look in other men’s eyes before, more notably the former King Joffrey Baratheon.

It was how she had recognized the growing look of hostility in Ramsay’s eyes. It was how men like him and little boy-men like Joffrey showed their hatred, dominance, and imparted fear on those who followed them. Men like Ramsay were easily provoked, Sansa knew.

Any provocation, any insult, no matter how big or insignificant, and the man’s fuse would blow, and their tempers would ignite like Wildfire, scorching and burning anything in their pathways that stood in the way.

And right now, Sansa Stark was standing in Ramsay Bolton’s way.

Ramsay was a violent man. She wasn’t stupid, she could tell this was a bastard who derived sick pleasure by beating and torturing anyone smaller and weaker than himself to a pulp if they so much as looked at him the wrong way and it pissed him off to that point where his temper flared, but then, Bolton would use his silver smooth-talking tongue to get out of trouble with anyone bigger or stronger in a better position of power.

Sansa visibly flinched as Ramsay’s mouth stretched wide into an unnaturally wide white smile as he laid eyes upon her, and he had moved so fast to stand by her side that the man was practically a blur that she had no time to blink. She felt her lips part slightly agape in a look of shock.

The young redhead bit her bottom lip in a slight pout and steeled the muscles in her jaw as she felt Ramsay’s lips touch her cheek. All his lips left was a little wet mark, a shallow pool of saliva on Sansa’s left cheek.

But when he planted that little kiss there, she felt an incredible heat spread through her limbs and her mind felt a horrible, red, raging buzz.

“Milady,” he murmured, his voice low and heavy with desire. “How kind of you to visit me,” he breathed, in a voice that sounded…excited. “You did not answer Lord Bolton’s question,” Ramsay replied, his voice undertaking a rather childlike tone. He was mocking her, speaking to Sansa as though she were twelve years old, not eighteen. “Answer him.”

Coming from him, it was not a request. Sansa swallowed and nodded.

“Home is familiar,” she heard herself saying in a voice that did not quite sound like her own. Her tone in the moment sounded cold and flat. “It is the people who are strange,” she retorted, unable to keep that all-too familiar hot fire seed of anger from raging deep within the pit of her stomach, and even Sansa was surprised at the acidity in her tone, the rage.

Sansa wasn’t sure if she should be relieved at Ramsay’s smile as it widened even more, if such a thing was possible. She fought back the urge to scrunch her nose in disgust and make a face.

Oh, how everything about this situation was so _horribly_ _awkward_! She wanted nothing more than to offer the men a polite little curtsy and flee, but she could tell by that indignant look in Ramsay’s eyes, he had no intentions of letting her leave. At least not yet. No, she was trapped here.

With _him_. Was there no end to this insufferable torment? Were the gods really this cruel that they would leave her fate in the hands of his man? Apparently, they were, and Sansa could not help cursing them.

It seemed an eternity before Ramsay spoke again. “You are lost?”

“Mmm?” Sansa blinked once or twice, confused by the man’s words. And then she remembered. “O—oh,” she stammered, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks. “I—I was just looking for the—the library, milord. I um…I got lost,” she confessed, suddenly wishing that a hole would open up in the floor beneath her feet and swallow her whole and not let her re-emerge until Lord Roose and Ramsay had well and gone, leaving her. 

Ramsay let a dark little chuckle escape his lips and something akin to amusement seemed to ignite a light in the Bolton man’s blue eyes.

“You are… _lost_ ,” he said slowly, letting the words roll off his fluid tongue. “This is your home, milady Stark. How can you be lost?”

Sansa watched out of the corner of her eyes as she turned away, clutching herself and shrinking into her dark blue velvet gown as much as she could for warmth. The young woman could not help but notice how startled Ramsay looked, as though the admission had caught him off guard. “You like to read,” he breathed, lowering his voice an octave. Sansa flinched as she heard Roose’s footsteps fade as he politely excused himself. “Might I have the pleasure of escorting you to the library, then?”

Ramsay held out his arm and offered her that dazzlingly charming smile that Sansa knew might once have made her swoon, back when she was naïve and younger, but not anymore. After spending so long in the company of the Lannisters, she had matured and learned much of the world and the vicious ways of men. She knew Ramsay had but one thing on his mind when it came to her and that was what rested between her legs. Sansa bit her bottom lip in a slight pout, her hand outstretched as she hesitated, not wanting at all to take the Bolton Bastard’s arm, but seeing no other alternative, judging by that hungry look in the man’s icy blue eyes. She was not going to go to the library alone unescorted, it seemed.

Sansa drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs as she intertwined her arm around his strong arm, feeling revolted she was _touching_ him.

A quick glance upward, having to crane her neck to do it as Ramsay was at least a few heads taller than she was, she could see the smug look of triumph in the man’s icy blue eyes as he escorted her at a leisurely pace to the library. A pace that felt like it crawled at its petty pace, and then she realized that he was parading her around her own home, showing her off.

Like she was nothing but a prize that he had won, and her made sure keep her left hand overtop his, so that the other Bolton men and men at arms could see the brilliant yellow gold of the simple but elegant ring that Ramsay had given her, that she wished she could take it and fling it into the depths of the sea, and hope that some fish would come along and eat it. Sansa could not help the shudder of revulsion that travelled down her spine, though she made a point to not let her disgust show in her eyes.

If she were disgusted, Sansa feared that she could not help it, given the dire nature of her current predicament that in little less than two days’ time now, she would be wed to the Bastard of Bolton himself. _Gods…_

Disgust. It was an emotion all men and women felt, Sansa knew this. She had thought once upon a time that her disgust could climb no higher than for the vain pig of a boy man-child that was Joffrey Baratheon, but those feelings she had felt for King’s Landing’s boy-king was nothing— _nothing_ —compared to what she felt for the man holding her arm now.

 _What disgusts you, Ramsay?_ Sansa mused, studying the young twenty-two year old out of the corner of her eye, carefully gauging his reactions.

Every so often, he would shoot her these longing glances, and get that predatory look in those cobalt blue eyes before quickly averting his gaze.

 _Why do you not listen to that little voice of repulsion in your head, Bastard?_ Sansa though, feeling surprised that her pure curiosity was overwhelming her fear as they continued through the dank dimly lit corridor towards the library _. If even you have one, maybe, just maybe, it is there for a reason, Lord Bolton. So, tell me, my bastard, what makes your skin crawl? Does anything repulse you? Are you afraid of the dark? Is that why there are so many lit torches along the way to the library? What is repellant to you, Bolton? Do you enjoy it, and if you do, why?_

All of these questions and more were swirling around in Sansa’s tired head, and she flinched, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, feeling the beginnings of a splitting headache coming on.

“Are you well, Lady Sansa?” came Ramsay’s voice, still sounding cold and distant to her, and when she lifted her head blearily to gaze at her intended, her insides curdled like milk with lemon. Were he a kind man, then Sansa would have perhaps been overjoyed to marry Ramsay, for there was no denying that he was a handsome man, but he revolted her.

Sansa knew the type of man Ramsay was. A beast, a monster, evil. She liked to think that no detail missed her eye, ever, and even now as they continued their stroll, at long last nearing the library, Sansa heard herself exhale through her nose, though the incredible tension in her shoulders did not leave her body. She figured her body would not be able to relax until Ramsay left her alone in solitude. The very sight of Ramsay made Sansa sick from the ends of her red hair to the nails on her delicate toes.

She considered herself not the type to hate easily, but she knew evil when she saw it. She _knew_. Sansa blinked, not realizing he had asked the question again. “I said,” he repeated, though with a slight tone of annoyance to his voice, losing that charming tone from before, his voice growing clipped and hard, “are you feeling quite well, milady?”

Sansa nodded mutely, afraid that if she opened her mouth to speak that she might vomit. Her stomach gave a painful lurch of fright as she felt his strong hand come up to grip her left hand, turning her palm over in his hands, studying the plain yellow gold ring that she wore on her ring finger. “Your fingers are like ice, milady. Allow me to warm them…”

She let out a hiss, feeling the bile coating the back of her throat, as he took both her hands in his and brought them to his lips for a surprisingly gentle kiss. Sansa cared not what he thought of her anymore. Letting out a tiny squeak of fear, she let out a gasp of surprise as she felt her hand instinctively pull away from Ramsay’s ironclad grip, and his smile faltered.

Sansa immediately dropped her gaze, not wanting to see the wrath in the man’s glacier blue eyes and felt a lock of auburn hair drift in front of her face, effectively shielding her gaze from her future betrothed’s stare.

When at last, Sansa determined that she could no longer hide from Ramsay any further, she lifted her chin, hating the slight tremble in it, for she was afraid of what she would find in his eyes. Ramsay had turned away from her for a moment, but when he finally turned back around, Sansa desperately wished the man would have kept his gaze on the wall.

Deliberation was over. He had judged her already and in his blue eyes Sansa only saw cool hatred. He’d had that same look towards her earlier.

“In the…in the courtyard,” Sansa whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. Unfortunately for her, Ramsay Bolton’s ears were better than any of his hounds, and she watched, horrified, as his ears perked up at the sound. His head whiplashed sharply up, and his blue eyes narrowed to slits. Sansa swallowed, feeling her breath catch in her throat. A hateful disdain lingered on his face, creating lines upon his otherwise smooth forehead and a deep groove near his mouth that did not flatter his handsome features, but it was more than that. There was a tenseness he wasn’t even trying to mask. She backed away, fumbling for the doorknob of Winterfell’s study. Nothing about this was making any sense to her.

Not his curling fists or the anger that radiated from his pale skin.

Those cobalt blue eyes of his were like a knife in poor Sansa’s ribs, the sharp point digging even deeper. There was a horrible emptiness in his eyes, like a black void of sorts, but not in any kind of vulnerable sense.

Uncomfortable with this void, Ramsay had filled it with an emotion he was more at ease with—raw anger, and this anger was directed towards her. The unmoving glacier blue gaze was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing, like he was fighting something back within and he was losing.

“Milord, i—if you will please e—excuse me, you seem…busy,” she mumbled, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. Sansa actively averted the man’s gaze, wildly looking to the left and right for any means of escape.

And then she remembered what she had been looking for all along.

Dipping her head in acknowledgement, she turned on the heel of her boot and made to turn her back on Ramsay to retreat to the safety of the library, where at least the door had a lock, when a strong hand caught her wrist and gave a rather hard and violent squeeze, hard enough to break it if he was of a mind to. Letting out a pained gasp, she inhaled sharply and she wasn’t even aware she was holding in her breath until she felt herself exhale a shaking, pained breath as Ramsay cupped her chin in his hand, tilting her head slightly to the right, forcing the young Lady of Winterfell to meet his stony, cold gaze. There was no warmth there that she could see. Sansa flinched and shirked back slightly from his touch as the pad of the man’s thumb and forefinger delicately stroked her cheek, with almost a surprising tenderness that she was not quite sure what to make of it.

“What’s your rush, little dove?” Ramsay crooned, sounding offended. “I did promise to show you to the library, but you only just got here…”

Sansa let out a tiny moan of pain as his fingers curled into a protective fist over her wrist and she felt her body being propelled backwards, until her back was pressed against the cold gray stone wall of the corridor.

“I…I should go, milord, for the—the hour is late, and you seem…” But her voice trailed off as she felt her chin being tilted upward again as he cupped her chin in his hand and once again forced to look upon him.

Sansa couldn’t bring herself to complete her sentence. Ramsay, however, had narrowed his eyes in intrigue and seemed to have other ideas in mind for the young redhead. His grip tightened and she could briefly smell the wine on his breath. The Bastard had been drinking.

“Hmm?” he encouraged, sounding more amused than anything. “I seem _what_ , milady? You can talk to me now. Don’t be shy. You’re to be my _wife_ soon, after all, little dove. We mustn’t keep _secrets_ from each other.” His tone still carried that inflection of slight mocking in it.

Sansa swallowed nervously, fighting back her urge to scream, for she knew that if she did, Ramsay would hit her…or worse. Sansa blinked back briny tears, not wanting to think of what ‘worse’ would mean for her if she were to make a scene here and now with the man who was to be her husband. It would likely not bode well for her at all. And besides, those other men—Bolton soldiers—they obeyed the commands of their liege, and she knew that she could not look to those men for help.

She inhaled sharply as she felt his strong hand drifted to her hip, settling there and pulled her closer to him, so that she was resting against his lean, firm, and surprisingly warm chest that was chiseled to perfection.

Sansa breathed out slowly, willing the tension in her body to leave her, though it remained firmly put, refusing to leave until _he_ was gone.

“What…” Sansa bit her bottom lip, feeling how chapped it was and caring not. “Our union. Do you even want this for yourself, milord? Has anyone asked _you_? What is it that _you_ want, Lord Bolton?” she asked softly. There was no malice in her question. It was a genuine, honest inquiry. What he wanted of her, she needed to know. She wasn’t quite certain where that little outburst had come from, but she knew the moment the words escaped from her lips that her words had hit their mark, and he looked stunned, and she felt his grip on her wrist slacken.

Sansa watched, stunned, as he took a few faltering steps backward. She took advantage of the opportunity to bolt, heading towards the library, not caring what his answer to the question that she had asked would be.

The man was a beast if ever there was one. Such a monster would never be able to be tamed, this much Sansa Stark knew to be a certainty.

Sansa hesitated just for a fraction of a second, risking one glance over her shoulder as she made for the library’s entrance, surprised to see Ramsay Bolton staring after her, his blue eyes wide and round with disbelief and awe, as though he could not believe what he had heard.

Perhaps that had been the first time someone had asked such a question of him. Something about the man’s blue eyes gave her pause.

How they were…almost melancholic. _So, the monster feels after all, how endearing_ , Sansa thought meanly, unable to keep the swirling vortex of evil black putrid yet sweet blissful thoughts of Ramsay suffering in the forefront of her mind, and she quickly set her face to ‘perfect impassiveness,’ and turned away, showing Ramsay she was not afraid.

Which was a bold-faced lie. Inside, she was terrified of the man that was to be her husband in just a few days’ time, but she could not show it.

She was a Wolf of Winterfell, and wolves were not cowards, nor was she. Sansa turned away and headed for the door, a hand outstretched, reaching towards the knob as though it was her final lifeline, that precious pathway to sanctuary, which in a way, Sansa supposed that this was.

Sansa was surprised when Lord Bolton asked of her a question that she did not expect. “You were married to the Lannisters’ freak Imp, were you not, milady?” Now, Ramsay merely sounded curious. “Did you…enjoy it? Did he…satisfy you?” There was a low purr to his voice, seductive and husky, as the realization of what he was asking hit Sansa.

She startled, her hand fumbling as it faltered trying to grab the door. She knew what Ramsay was doing. He was stalling her to keep her here.

Still, something about his tone compelled Sansa to answer. “More than…” _More than you ever could, you beast,_ she thought angrily.

But that little thought, she dared not speak aloud, or _else_ … Sansa didn’t want to know what ‘or else’ meant in this case. Presumably, nothing good. Sansa’s hand gripped onto the doorknob, deciding it would be in everyone’s best interest if she were to calmly retreat from the situation before things escalated and got beyond her measure of control.

It wouldn’t do to draw attention to herself. Not now, like… _this_.

Sansa let out an understated sigh and made to enter into the library when the harsh bark of Ramsay Bolton’s voice rendered her immobile.

“Do not walk away from your lord, woman,” Ramsay snarled. _He’s beginning to sound like his old self_ , Sansa thought angrily, her jaw muscles clenching rooted shut and a muscle behind her eyelid twitching.

Gone was the charm whenever he was around Lord Roose Bolton, or Lord Baelish, or any man with an authority of power over Ramsay.

Ramsay continued, his voice growing harder and clipped. “You have not been dismissed, Lady Sansa. Do you even know to whom you’re speaking, girl?” he growled, breathing in a sharp breath that seemed to suck all the rest of the air in the corridor along with it.

Sansa couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, the Lady of Winterfell could feel the all-too familiar hot spark of anger welling deep within the pits of her stomach, as it had been whenever she’d been forced to endure Joffrey’s company during the final days of his miserable existence, and she bit back her tongue in an effort to quell to several dozen remarks that were swirling around in her exhausted head, and before she could stop herself, the words just…poured out. “I know _exactly_ who you are, Lord Bolton,” her voice steel as she taunted the young lord Bolton, that bastard man, through gritted teeth, as she balled her hands into fists by her side, feeling the muscles in her back go rigid and tense. “You, Ramsay Bolton, are a miserable maggot, a whining, whimpering weasel who seeks nothing but death at the hands of yourself and your father’s approval. You’re _weak_.”

Sansa knew the minute those words tumbled out of her mouth, resonating in the air like a deathly poison, that they’d hit their mark, for Ramsay Bolton was clearly a man who was not used to having someone—let alone a woman, no doubt—speak back to him as she had.

She whirled around and bolted for the door, wrenching it open violently with full intent to slam the door in Bolton’s face and lock it and as a result of how her mind reeled, she did not hear the footfalls shuffling behind her. She was too busy fumbling for a nearby torch when a pair of strong hands pushed her into the wall in front of her—Ramsay’s hands.

It stung and sent swells of pain throughout her entire body. His chin rested upon her shoulder, and he breathed into his ear. “You’re rejecting me,” Ramsay breathed, whispering it into the shell of her ear, causing a wash of cold to travel down her spine towards her toes. “Unfortunately for you, your little act of defiance has…piqued my interest,” he growled, and it was only when he shifted, pressing his body further into hers that she felt the back of her leg grind against his growing hardness. “I’ve taken an interest in you, sweet Sansa, and I always get what I want in the end. No one’s ever talked back to me as you have, my love,” he sneered. “I think I like you, and for that, I promise you, you will enjoy what comes next.” That was when Ramsay’s lips clamped down onto her right ear.

They were light at first, and then the bastard bit down harder. Sansa stifled a moan and squirmed against the wall, which only encouraged Ramsay to behave rougher, goading that monster that dwelt within.

Bolton bit down harder, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from Sansa. The teeth turned into a tongue, sliding over the rim of Sansa’s ear, causing her to cry out. She felt her entire body begin to tremble beneath his touch.

His two hands slid down her sides and landed on her waist, gripping almost painfully tight. Sansa blinked back briny tears, not knowing what to do. “You asked me what I want,” he breathed, his speech slightly slurred as he whispered it into the girl’s ear. “I want…” _You_ , is what he wanted to say. _To feel you inside of me, screaming my name for the whole goddamn North to hear. I want you._ _Naked, ravaged, afraid of me. To see you bleeding. You_. “You know what it is that I want,” he growled, one of his hands drifted upwards and tugging on her gown.

White knuckles from clenching her fists too hard, and gritted teeth from the effort to remain silent, her rigid form exuded an animosity that was like poison—burning, slicing, and potent. Sansa’s already pale face was absolutely white with rage and shock at what he was demanding of her, and when Ramsay Bolton reached up a hand to brush back a lock of red hair over her shoulder, Sansa Stark swung back and mentally snapped.

“How _dare_ you!” Sansa shouted, ducking underneath Ramsay’s arm and turning on the heel of her boot, taking a few faltering steps away from her intended, clutching at the skirts of her dress defensively, as if she thought that would prevent the Bastard of Bolton from whatever it was he was about to do next, and what that would be, even she didn’t want to think of it, though she could tell by the wild unhinged look in those blue eyes of Bolton’s that the only thought in his mind was of ravaging her.

Raping her, taking her over and over again until there was nothing left. Ramsay seemed to be rendered speechless as she shoved him backward, poking a finger in his chest as he advanced upon the girl.

Like a wolf stalking its prey. He had not anticipated the girl to be so strong, and Sansa knew as he looked at her, that he could not find words.

“You might be a lord, and you might have control over my family’s home and our lands, but you must be completely _insane_ to think I would do any such thing, no matter what you think of me. I would rather die than ever willingly lay with you!” Sansa screamed, gritting her teeth in anger. The girl swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat as he approached her once more, and this time, Ramsay did not restrain himself. Slamming his hand into the wall behind Sansa’s head, he grabbed her jaw violently and forced her to look him dead center in the eyes.

Sansa swallowed hard as she looked into the Bastard’s eyes, how Ramsay’s wide open eyes reflected everything and yet, saw nothing.

Behind them was something more intense than normal thought and his clenched two-day stubble on his jaw was not a good sign. Sansa had been hoping to get through this little stroll to the library without incident. Actually, she wasn’t entirely sure what she had been hoping for, perhaps not outright forgiveness for whatever it was she had done to upset him prior to this, but the beginnings of a tentative understanding.

They were, after all, due to be married in a few evenings from now.

Now, however, Sansa simply hoped that he would let her go without giving Ramsay a reason to hate her all the more, but she knew that as she looked into the man’s eyes, those blue eyes holding total anger, it hurt.

The way his blue eyes squinted when Sansa defiantly lifted her chin and glowered at Ramsay reminded the girl of a pit viper’s slit-like pupils.

She gulped nervously. A burning animosity was developing in those cobalt eyes of his, and Sansa could tell she was likely the root cause of his problem. And, if judging by the hungry look in his eyes, Sansa was about to find herself in a spot of trouble she wasn’t quite sure she’d get out of.

Very. Deep. Trouble.


	4. Ramsay

**Ramsay**

The aching in his skull ebbed and flowed like a cold tide, yet the pain was always there. He understood at once why they called it a hangover, for it felt as if the blackest of clouds were over his head with no intention of clearing until the morrow. How the smell of the wine earlier had been intoxicating, yet right now, it felt like it only added to his nausea. His brain felt like it would swell beyond the capacity of his skull and now his dehydration was too much to ignore. He had ventured down from his chambers in search of water. 

Normally, he'd ask one of the serving girls to bring him a flagon, but he'd needed to clear his head as it was.

For some insane maddening reason that was beyond his comprehension, he'd not been able to cease his thinking of Lady Sansa.

He had not expected nor anticipated to find her in the mess hall, the second time in one day that he had run into the fair maiden. Surely, it was Fate. The Gods were kind to him, were they not? He was blessed.

A good fucking was just what he needed to release the tension, cease the fire in his loins. He had not anticipated the reaction she would have as he had escorted her to the library, not intending to let her linger there.

He knew her game, how she played it. Well…she would not win.

And now…it would appear that the Lady Sansa had bested him, for this time, it was he who was at a complete loss for cohesive thoughts.

Ramsay stared at his bride, not able to form any coherent words as to what she had just done. She had to be the insane one after all, not him.

To put it rather bluntly, Ramsay had never received such a response before. In fact, he doubted that, given his status as Lord, no one had ever rejected him. He was utterly shocked at the young woman's outburst.

Sansa did not know what to do, given that he had her literally pinned against the stone wall near the library's entrance. She wasn't going anywhere that he didn't want her to. Jut one look in her cobalt blue eyes was a cruel joke, a dream. His bride had asked of him what he wanted.

"You asked me what I wanted. I want you," he murmured, moving his lips down to the pale column of her throat.

 _I want you in this darkness which you cannot fight. Right now._ _Ravaged, bleeding, screaming my name until you're hoarse. I'll take you right on the table of the fucking table_. His lips moved down over her collarbones and nipped at the tender skin. Ramsay knew this would be bad. Her skin was so soft, so supple.

Unblemished, and just the thought of future bruises to impart had his mind screaming at him, and the aching and burning fire in his loins was begged Ramsay to do something about it. He shifted and let out a groan as her thigh brushed against his leg as she tried to escape. He growled.

 _Her skin bruises so easily_ , Ramsay thought as he nipped it again and she let out a groan. It seemed that his new little captor knew this too.

His lips began to suck at the skin at the tender base of her neck furiously, until Sansa let out a noise of panic and a tiny breathy squeak.

"Milord, please…if you've any decency, don't do this, please…" Her voice was desperate now, which only ravaged the fire between his legs. His grip upon her wrist tightened, and the soft gasp of pain she emitted as Ramsay's fingers curled into a protective vice grip upon her arm only fueled his wrath. "I know…you are not like your father, Lord Ramsay."

Who the hell did this _bitch_ think she was, bringing up _his_ father?

He did not know what prompted him to let out such an insult, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "So, you have come home…to the place where angels now reside. How does it feel to be in the presence of your own personal god, Lady Sansa Stark?"

After a moment, Ramsay expected Sansa to nod, even smile at his quip, his little attempt at a joke. But she did neither of those things.

Sansa furrowed her delicate brows into a frown and scowled, turning her heated gaze towards him, seemingly momentarily forgoing her fear.

"This is no place of joy, milord," she growled through gritted teeth, her nails digging into the skin of her palm. "And you are no angel or god." She spoke to him very slowly and quietly, as though she were addressing a young boy who was having a temper tantrum instead of a fully grown adult man of twenty-one, whom she was to marry soon.

Ramsay let out a growl and slammed his fist into the wall dangerously close to her ear, smirking as the redhead flinched and clamped her eyes shut. Ramsay stood, completely flabbergasted by her response. He felt his smug grin slide off his slender face, to be replaced with a look of complete disgust. And as Sansa stared defiantly back, he saw in those bewitching cobalt blue eyes of hers a flicker of defiance, satisfaction and…victory. 

This…she had taken it too far. This he could not allow of his bride. Not at all. "You might think this is over, little dove, but it is far from resolved, my love. You _will_ obey me." Ramsay growled, reaching up a tender hand, slowly grazing her cheek with the back of his palm.

He heard Sansa let out a startled gasp at the contact, and her cheek was surprisingly warm. Ramsay paused, feeling a strange sudden longing, an urge to continue caressing her, though he knew she would resist him.

Strange. He usually had no interest in such affectionate gestures.

"We are betrothed, are we not, Lady Sansa? Don't you think we should…get better acquainted with one another?" he murmured lowly, whispering it into the shell of her ear. His desire was reaching his limit.

Still…he had promised Father that he would not touch the girl, play any of his games with her, until their wedding night, but gods, damn it all to Seven Hells, why the fuck had he made a promise he could not keep?

It was even _more_ infuriating that his betrothed wouldn't look at him. Sansa Stark kept actively averting her gaze, her cobalt eyes fixated at a spot behind Ramsay's head, unfocused and glassy, almost…listless.

The lifeless, almost disinterested gaze with which Ramsay was met with did not suit Sansa Stark at all, for she was a beautiful woman, and to see this look of disinterest and disgust upon her pretty features was a sin.

Ramsay stifled the growl at the back of his throat as the dim candlelight from the nearby torch in its holder near the library's flickered wildly across his bride's pale face as Ramsay had rather unceremoniously and violently pushed her against the wall, fully prepared to take her right here if he must. _Fuck the waiting, and fuck our wedding_ , he thought.

Why in the seven hells should he wait? What good was his promise to Father now, then? He could easily take her right here, and she would be screaming and panting his name, and he would impregnate the girl with a beautiful little Wolf-cub with a pair of brilliant blue eyes. Both of theirs.

Sansa's eyes were clenched tightly shut and she had turned her head away from him, no doubt fearful of what was going to become of her.

Ramsay felt his lips curl upwards into a twisted smirk that was more of a malicious grimace, satisfied at his bride's obvious discomfort. _Good_.

She ought to be scared of him. And then she turned her head back towards Ramsay and her eyelids fluttered open. Ramsay had been about to start his 'you belong to me' speech, the usual nonsense he pulled on the other women in his life, at first he had tried it with Myranda, and then when she hadn't been fazed, he moved towards the kitchen wenches. And now, it was Lady Stark's turn. He would go light on her.

Ramsay could not explain his sudden shift in attitude as he let his hand slide gently off before stepping backwards slightly, hearing her sigh.

It was that little barely audible sigh of relief that did it for him, and that was within something within him snapped and he felt the wild beast within let out a guttural roar in his chest and strain against its chains.

Ramsay, for reasons he could not identify, could not help staring at the girl's white, supple, unblemished skin. She had almost translucent skin, thin and without any discernable pigment. Sansa was fair, almost like that of the finest porcelain, yet she did hold at least a little bit of color.

It was her cheeks, which were currently flushed high and pink.

Ramsay bit his bottom lip and drifted his hand upward, his fingertips grazing her cheek delicately, as if any harder than that, she would break.

So soft, so fragile, he thought. He wondered just how much resistance the she-wolf would have if he were to try to kiss her. And he wanted to.

The moment, however, was immediately ruined, his good mood dissipated the second Sansa Stark let out a surprised gasp and shirked away, backing against the wall until she was well pressed against it.

Ramsay felt the inner beast within tug and strain on its chain as he stifled a low growl in the back of his throat, blue eyes flashing angrily.

It was probably due to the fact that Sansa Stark had clearly not felt what he had just then. Gritting his teeth, he stared at the girl bitterly.

Was he really _that_ despicable? The fair-skinned redheaded beauty was breathing heavily, her breast rising and falling, and he could feel her trembling underneath his hand. She wasn't much in terms of height, her delicate slender nose just barely touching the top of his shoulder.

Blinking owlishly at the young woman whose wrist he held captive in a vice-grip, Ramsay Bolton suddenly realized who he was, the bastard son of Roose. The young lord could have whomever he wanted, and he did not need to think of his bride's _feelings_. He didn't give a damn about etiquette and proper edict as far as Lady Sansa Stark was concerned.

She let out a low whimper and this only fueled the ache between his loins. "Shhh," he hushed, whispering into the shell of her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe. He did it again, as much to soothe the girl's nerves as much to calm himself. "Shush. You will enjoy what comes next, milady. I promise…" Ramsay whispered. "I won't hurt you. Too much," he added, almost as an afterthought, and let out a shuddering breath as his wandered of its own accord, no longer taking direction from his mind as it came to rest on the column of her pale, perfect, white throat. 

So soft, he thought, parting his lips slightly, imagining for a moment what it would be like to wrap both of his hands around Sansa Stark's throat and slowly drain the life force out of her, watching the light dim in her eyes.

And yet…even that thought currently troubled the young lord of House Bolton. The thought of Lady Sansa of Winterfell dead at his hand.

There was a scream from deep within that forced its way from his mouth, it was as his fuming soul had unleashed a horrible shadow demon.

It was rumored that Stannis Baratheon was in league with a red woman, a witch who dabbled in the arts of black magic. Ramsay wondered how much of it was true and which rumors were falsehoods.

All he knew was how he felt—how this woman who trembled at him beneath his touch, which was surprisingly gentle, was making him feel.

The only thing Ramsay Bolton could feel was anger, that he did not want to trust anyone, because it would be easier for him…Safer, you see.

Oh, he knew he was hiding a truth from himself, of how much this really had to do with scars that just simply wouldn't heal and his sadness.

He shook his head violently to clear his mind of such weak-willed thoughts, his fists curling into tight fists and his teeth locked up once the sound was out. He would deal with his… _feelings_ later, with Myranda.

If Sansa would not yet have him, there was always the kennel bitch.

Ramsay felt Sansa tremble beneath his touch and that simple shudder of revulsion stopped the bastard dead in his tracks as he stared into her surprisingly warm and pleading eyes. The bastard felt his frustration well deep within his chest and he thought he was going to explode, and he felt himself exhale through his nose, still violently maintaining his ironclad grip upon Sansa's wrist.

He took another deep breath, wanting nothing more than to scream at her, to have a tantrum and raise his hand to her.

And yet…behind those fearful blue eyes of hers that had seemingly once again found a way to trap Ramsay in the depths of their endless gaze all on their own, there was a pleading that lingered in her orbs, sadness and shock as well. She anxiously looked towards her left and her right.

Ramsay did not blame her for unreasonably afraid of him, after all. He could see how terrified she would be as this memory will come back and play on her mind over and over again. It would only repeat. He knew it.

It was just too goddamn easy for Ramsay, for him to be cruel in the moment and then the damage was done. So many times in his life, especially towards Father, he had wanted to unsay things, to take it back.

He was learning how to deal it, but slowly. It was one of the reasons that Sansa Stark had been promised to him as a bride. To learn to manage.

Ramsay continued to gaze into those blue eyes of Sansa's, and he felt his anger slowly begin to dissipate, though the pleading, desperate look she was currently giving him did nothing to quell the overwhelming whelming in his loins. He swallowed, feeling his eyes begin to moisten.

His bride's eyes even when she was afraid showed the unfamiliar kind of gentle concern he had always hoped that his Father would have whenever he looked at his son. Sansa said nothing. She didn't need to.

Looking down into Sansa's eyes, the emotions in his bride's eyes was fathoms deep, yet they seemed to carry the warmth and life of a sunlight surface, even in Winterfell, the place of the North with seemingly endless brutal fucking winters. Her eyes had a thousand hues of blue and just a small touch of hazel radiating there in softly swooping arcs. Mesmerizing.

Ramsay knew that Sansa believed his designs of her were to take her for himself, to ravage her until he had poured his seed into her belly, gotten her with child, and yet, while that had been his intentions, he knew now that he did not want this. Not in this way. Not like this.

He had not anticipated Sansa's resistance when he ordered her to do whatever he bade of her, because no female had ever rejected him before.

All of them, they were all his bitches. Just like his precious hounds.

Even now, as his affianced stood there, cowering underneath his weight, and staring up at him with fearful, wide, innocent blue eyes, Ramsay Bolton realized that this was not what he wanted of her at all.

This celestial being, this creature, this woman, for reasons that were foreign to Ramsay, she did not see what every other woman in the North saw whenever they were forced to meet their lord's gaze. This strange creature, she did not see a young lord full of promise and potential.

She saw _him_. Exactly as he was and had miraculously for a moment made him forget that he was the legitimized bastard son of Roose Bolton.

It was clear to him now. Sansa was afraid of him, reviled him as a Beast. The Bolton Beast, some called him, others Bastard of Bolton, and the last, the worst, Skinflayer. All of the man's nicknames were true.

Ramsay could feel the sweat drench in his skin from the adrenaline coursing through his veins and there was still the matter of the almost unbearable heat pooling between his legs, and he felt like he was going to implode if he did not do something soon to remedy this little problem.

"Tell me, beloved," he sneered, in a last ditch effort to control his urge. Her leg shifted against his crotch and he almost growled with the effort to restrain himself. Ramsay rested his chin on her shoulder and whispered his next question into her ear, desperate to hear her answer.

"Wh-what is it, milord?" Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"Do you believe in love?" There was no malice in his voice. There was silence, and Ramsay felt that fire seed of anger begin to resurface. He had thought perhaps she wasn't answering to spite him, but then he quickly realized that the girl did not expect such a question.

Ramsay lifted his chin and jutted it out slightly, turning to face Sansa, who was panting heavily, her eyes downcast, twisting her fingers together painfully. He could not help but notice how the fingers of her right hand continuously drifted towards the plain yellow gold wedding ring he had given her and began fidgeting with it in a rather nervous manner.

He swallowed, resisting the urge to smack her hand away. The young lord could feel the throbbing of his own eyes, the thumping of his heart against his chest.

He felt his fingers curl into a fist, nails digging into the skin of his palm as he clenched and unclenched his hands, unsure of what to do with them. He was… _nervous_. Since when did he ever get fucking _nervous_?

Ramsay could not hear his rapid breathing as his breaths quickened, but he could feel the air flooding in and out of his lungs as he waited for the girl to answer him. Hesitantly, his eyes looked towards Sansa Stark.

The fear tortured his guts, churning his stomach into tense cramps. It engulfed his conscience, knocking all other thoughts aside. Her answer to his question would make things quite plain and perfectly clear to him.

It overwhelmed his body, making it drastically exhausted all of a sudden. However, most of all, the fear of the ambiguity of not knowing Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell's answer was making him calm and it fucking scared him. That was what scared him the most in the moment.

The power of speech seemed to have rendered Sansa Stark mute. She blinked owlishly at Ramsay, staring into his bright blue eyes burning with anger, and her heart had fallen silent. "ANSWER ME!" he roared.

But the foolish girl couldn't will her lips to move. As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as he pointed a shaky finger in his bride's face. "Do you have nothing to say to me on this matter? I asked you a question, Lady Sansa, now tell me what you are thinking!"

Sansa flinched at the harsh bark in his voice. But her mind was blank and her blue eyes wide as she stared at her betrothed in horror, how the man was silently seething, utterly fuming and quaking in his boots.

His blue eyes desperately searched hers…waiting for her to answer.

She had to say something! Sansa seemed to be wildly searching her mind for something reasonable to say, but to her surprise, her heart answered for her. 

"Yes." Her voice was a soft susurration, like a soft breeze in summer. And that was when he let her go, relinquishing his grip upon her wrist.

It was clear to him, judging by the fear in her eyes, she saw a beast.

And of course, she was right. He felt the fire in his loins dissipate almost instantly, the overwhelming urge to take her right then and there leaving him. Oh, he would eventually, but…not yet. Not in this way.

"Go. Leave me," he croaked hoarsely, feeling moisture in his eyes as he released her, shoving her forward slightly, albeit surprisingly gentle so.

Sansa stood frozen on the spot, mouth slightly agape in shock, her soft, luscious lips parted, still looking up at Ramsay, her blue eyes fearful.

She was staring at him as she had that moment in the courtyard upon first laying eyes on him. That look of insatiable curiosity, almost a thirst.

He could not stand it. He wished for nothing more than for Sansa to disappear and not look at him. Not as he was at present. An utter mess.

Sansa stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout, clearly hesitating.

"Sansa." His voice was dangerously soft and quiet, and she flinched, though she had by this point turned around on the heel of her boot, preparing to flee the corridor and make for the stairwell, undoubtedly to head to the safety of her chambers where he knew there was a door lock.

Ramsay's voice was low and soft, but powerful enough to send a chill of fear and…something else through Sansa's body, sending an incredible heat through her body. His voice was deep, whenever he spoke, every head in the room would turn. Ramsay Bolton had that rich, smooth, melodious tone. _The kind of voice a man ought to have_ , Sansa thought.

The bastard son of Lord Roose Bolton spoke as if he controlled all seven kingdoms, his experience seeping through. He would remind you of a stormy day. "Don't." His warning escaped him as a low growl.

"Milord?" It was a miracle that Sansa could even find her words, after what had transpired here. Or rather, what had almost become of her.

"Don't believe in it. _Love_ ," he answered, when Ramsay saw Sansa had knitted her brows together in confusion, a frown playing upon her beautiful features. For one wild inappropriate moment, he wanted to see what her smile looked like. But the Bastard of Bolton knew better.

"Why?" Sansa felt like her head would likely explode. The moment she realized she had misinterpreted Ramsay Bolton's actions, his words, his expressions…as if he had been speaking ancient Dothraki or something other language that she could not understand…the moment her words stopped was the moment her heart gave a painful lurch in her chest. It seemed to take ages for Ramsay to find his voice.

Now the silence lay upon her skin like a poison. It seeped into her blood and paralyzed her mind; her pupils had become dilated and there was a tremor in her hands. She gingerly rubbed the wrist Ramsay had almost broken, and already she could see the beginning purple bruises of the markings she knew that she did not want but would bear them regardless. Ramsay's face was one of awkwardness, not even hurrying to save her feelings, to fill the void between them that hung in the air.

This void was a cruelty he had inflicted upon her unintentionally, but had he been aware, Sansa knew he would not have cared a wit of her.

He picked his eyes off the floor, where he had been staring at the hem of her dark blue gown with the weariness of one who was fatigued with the whining of a small child and raised his eyebrows, glowering at Sansa.

The silence was poisonous in its nothingness, cruelly underscoring how vapid their conversation had become. The silence was eerily unnatural, and both Ramsay and Sansa decided that they hated it.

"Because…I do not have it." He let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, as though he were fitting off a splitting migraine. "If you stay with me, milady. I will kill you bit by bit. I cannot lie to you. That is what I do to those who claim to love me," he growled, restlessly beginning to pace the floor, his hands clasped behind his back, actively averting his gaze. "Why? I don't fucking know. If I have enough power over you, it puts me in control. Having control makes you strong, milady, and we Bolton men don't like weaklings. It gives me satisfaction. Almost like…it is the thing that drives me. The thing that I would do any fucking thing for. You have chosen this life, Lady Sansa, by not realizing what I have done to you. What I _will_ do."

Sansa's lips parted in shock, and she seemed to be struggling to find her words. There it was again. That look. That inquisitive look.

Ramsay couldn't fucking stand it, for her to look at him this way…

"Go. Do I need to say it a second time? I _really_ _hate_ saying it a second time. GO!" he roared, looking down at his boots in defeat, causing Sansa Stark to flinch.

The young woman of Winterfell did not need to be told a third time, for which he was grateful. If she had, she would have met the back of his hand.

Quickly ducking under Ramsay's arm, Sansa picked up her skirts slightly and fled as quickly as she could back to her chambers.

Neither of them was unable to believe what had just happened.

Both parties, it should be noted were unaware of Lord Roose Bolton lingering in the shadows…


	5. Roose

**Roose**

He had not anticipated to witness such an event. He had merely been taking a stroll through the corridors heading towards the library to look over the plans to lay siege to the rest of Stannis Baratheon's armies, given that he couldn't sleep thanks to Fat Walda's fucking sickness surrounding her pregnancy, and he had quite wanted to get away from the horrible sounds of her heaving and retching, not to mention the smell, when the shouting had rent the air, and what had once been peaceful became polluted with rage. His son's voice. Everyone tensed, even Roose, though he knew both the Lady Sansa and Ramsay could not see him.

Whenever Ramsay got going there was no escape, leaving like the girl so very clearly looked like she wanted to do only would make his ire worse, longer lasting. He drew in a bated breath and held it, being careful to stay shrouded in the shadows. He wanted to see what kind of effect the girl would have on his bastard son, if she would scream and cry like the other women Ramsay tended to bring to his chambers in the evening.

The shouting was a violence in the air, a way to take the anger from Ramsay and transfer the tension to his bride. He did not just raise his voice, his muscles tensed, and he got right in close to the girl's face for maximum impact. Roose waited, wondering if she would give in to the boy's carnal demands, try to soothe him, mother him, give him whatever he wanted (in this case, allow him to fuck her) in order to keep the peace.

But the girl did neither of those things. He watched, astonished, as Lady Sansa retorted harshly with a remark of her own that clearly affected his son in a way that Lord Roose Bolton had never seen in Ramsay before. She had, perhaps for the first time in his young life, rendered him mute. Roose did not flinch, though the girl did, as Ramsay let out a shout in response to whatever the girl had said in a low murmur, too low for Roose to make out, for which he was incredibly disappointed.

This little verbal sparring match between the pair was perhaps the most excitement Roose had witnessed in weeks. This was the first time a woman ever dared to talk back to the Skinflayer, the Bastard of Bolton.

There was something there in that shout of Ramsay's, a pain behind it. Weakness. Roose furrowed his thick gray brows into a frown, knitting them together in confusion. He wasn't quite sure if he liked the way the boy was looking at the fair-skinned redheaded Lady of Winterfell at all.

He hoped, of course, that the woman would stay at least a little of the madness within his soul's heart (what little of it he had to begin with).

Roose watched, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the stone wall of the corridor, still being careful to remain hidden for the time being. He watched. He watched Ramsay's eyes. Then he knew.

The anger was nothing but a shield for the young lad's pains, like a soldier who had been cornered against a wall and had no weapon to defend himself, lonely, desperate. Roose exhaled a tense breath through his nostrils. He did not know what the girl was saying to him, but whatever it was, it had been enough for Ramsay to relinquish his ironclad grip upon the fair beauty's wrist and relieve her of his company for now.

Roose watched as Ramsay stared after the girl for a moment before turning away and storming down the opposite hallway from which he came. Sansa still lingered in the corridor and Roose took the opportunity to at least step from the shadows, offering the beauty a long, slow clap.

"I do believe congratulations are in order, milady Stark," he complimented, the beginnings of a genuine smile creeping on his lined face. "I daresay that might be the first time that a woman has dared to speak out against my son. Does he frighten you, Lady Sansa?" he asked.

Lord Roose barely was able to stifle his smile as he stepped out from the shadows and allowed the warmth of the lit torch on the wall nearby to bathe half of his careworn face in the dim light, and he carefully studied Ramsay's bride's movements, her range of facial expressions.

He could practically see the girl's emotions darting in those azure orbs of hers. A wide range of emotions flickered throughout her eyes at what had just transpired between her and his bastard son, ranging from complete disgust to yes, even fear, and perhaps even…victory.

She had won. Though admittedly, Roose was not expecting the she-wolf of Winterfell to have as much of a backbone as she had displayed towards his bastard son only mere moments ago. It did not, however, stop the look of pure unadulterated terror to flit through the girl's blue eyes.

Roose watched, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought back a smile as the girl's eyes grew wide and round with shock as Sansa undoubtedly was processing in her mind what she had just narrowly escaped. He could not help commenting, just to see what she would say.

"That was a first for my son, I admit. You did not answer me. Does Ramsay frighten you, milady? Be honest with me now, child," he said.

Sansa stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout and bit down hard enough to draw blood. "I—I don't… yes," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Roose smiled. Good girl.

It would do her no good to lie, especially not to him. "You should be frightened of Ramsay, Lady Stark. I'd consider you a fool if you were not," he answered coldly, and it did not escape the Warden's notice of how his calm baritone voice, his choice of words, they sent a tremor down her spine, though she did her best to repress it. She had spirit.

He would give her that much. An admirable trait for a she-wolf.

Roose smirked, folding his burly arms across his chest as he leaned against the wall. Sansa was clearly in no hurry to return yet to her quarters. It would seem her mind still needed time to due process everything that had just happened, the words she had spat at Ramsay.

It seemed an age before he spoke again. "I am afraid I must bear the blame of the current…predicament you find yourself, milady Sansa."

Sansa's head whiplashed sharply upwards as she gawked at Lord Roose Bolton in shock, her pink lips parted slightly agape as she blinked owlishly. "I…no, milord, the—the choice to come here was Baelish's."

Roose smirked, having anticipated that would be the answer the girl would give. "And yet, _you_ ultimately agreed to the union, milady. In the end, however much influence you think Lord Baelish has with me, the final decision was yours, and…well, here you stand before me. I wonder if you are beginning to regret your decision to return home," he smirked. "And you think that because of your agreement to the union, this will avenge your fallen family? I think not, dear sweet thing. You're wrong."

Sansa bit down even harder on her lip, and Roose find himself inexplicably staring at the divot there between her lips. How soft it was.

Blinking, he shook his head to clear his mind of such inappropriate thoughts. They needed Sansa. She was their last key to maintaining the hold over the entire North. And if his bastard son manipulated her and broke her spirit to the point where she was incapable of producing an heir, then this little harebrained scheme of Lord Baelish's was for naught.

Roose had only agreed to the match because Stark was their key to the North, and there was a small part of him that hoped if he gave his son a bride whoever the poor unfortunate girl happened to be, that she would somehow be able to quell the boy's unquenchable thirst for bloodlust.

The Warden had expressed doubts of the girl's ability to handle Ramsay with any sort of tact, though based on what he had just witnessed, he knew this now not to be the case. She had a fiery spirit.

He was, however, beginning to doubt that thought, that it would actually come to fruition, for Roose had recognized the hungry look of desire in Ramsay's ice-cold blue eyes. He had heard his breaths quicken.

"Why does he hate you so much, milord?" Sansa's voice was soft, and he would have missed it had he already not been hanging onto her words.

Lord Bolton's brain stuttered for a moment and his cold blue eyes took in more light from the nearby torch on the wall than expected and it felt like every part of his brain went on pause while his thoughts caught up. He did not think that anyone had ever asked such a question before.

This woman—this bride of Ramsay's, was a woman of intrigue. He was beginning to regret his decision to marry the girl off to the beast.

In a rare moment of agitation, he removed the torch from its holder on the wall behind Sansa's head and brought it to the front, thrusting in the girl's face to better see her features in the otherwise dimly lit hallway.

Sansa blinked flinched, taking a fumbling step backwards, having to lift the hem of her gown to avoid stumbling on it with her boot heels.

The Wolf of Winterfell clenched her eyes shut, turning her head sharply to the right, no doubt because of the torch Lord Bolton had just thrust into her face. The flames were entirely too close to her face for her comfort, and she could have sworn she felt the beginnings of her hair start to burn and singe. "I—my apologies, m-milord, I—I meant no offense."

She dipped her head in submission and clasped her hands together in front of her. Roose felt his gaze drift downward and settle on her left hand. The simple yellow gold wedding ring that Ramsay had bequeathed her shone brilliantly, the gold reflecting in the dancing embers of the fire.

After a wash of cold, Roose felt his body take a step towards the Stark girl, out of the shadows and more towards the light, feeling a new warmth to the night and it invigorated him, giving him a new purpose.

There was something about this she-wolf that was special, even Roose could see that, and Ramsay would be an utter fool for denying the truth.

Sansa Stark flinched yet again as the heat from the burning fire became almost unbearable, as Roose continued his holding of the torch entirely too close to her face, squinting, trying to better gauge her reaction.

The young woman crinkled her nose in disgust at the smell of a strand of her hair starting to singe and recoiled, trying her hardest not to make such a face in front of the Warden of the North, but it was this look that perhaps saved her, as the new Lord of Winterfell noticed and promptly lowered the torch at last. Lord Roose glanced down his hooked but slender nose at Lady Sansa Stark and felt his entire body stiffen a little.

At last, Roose Bolton seemed to find his voice. "My son's hatred of me is nothing but a weak transformation of his own shame and insecurities…it is all he hates about himself yet lacks the courage to face."

"O-oh." Sansa blinked owlishly, continuing that infuriating habit of fidgeting with the gold wedding band Ramsay had given her that for reasons unknown to him infuriated him. This girl was proving to be quite the mystery, her presence around Winterfell buzzing around him like a fly he could not swat. The Warden stared at her; blue eyes full of hatred.

Though not for her. For his son. "It is far easier for Ramsay to lose himself in the ah…theatrics of his own mind, if you will, than it is for that man to swallow even an ounce of the bitter truth," Roose Bolton commented. "I had hoped that your union would bring some small measure of peace to that accursed wretch's soul," Roose spat bitterly.

"You despise him," Sansa breathed, her voice barely audible. "Why?"

"My son, in regards to his rumors, is an ill-made, spiteful creature with nothing on his mind but how many women he can bed, milady."

Lady Sansa fell silent, averting her gaze and casting it downwards to meet the Warden's boots. "And…what makes you think that it is I who has any power to possibly change your son's behavior, Lord Bolton?"

Roose smiled, feeling a dark chuckle escape his lips as he offered the Lady Sansa his arm, fully intending to escort the lady back to her chambers. "I do not bite, child. I am not like my son, Lady Stark."

He waited, beginning to grow slightly impatient with the girl as he watched her painfully twist her hands together, her nails digging into her skin, weaving her fingers in between her knuckles. He let out a sigh.

"Tell me, my child, do you wish for an end to this engagement?"

Not that she was going to _get_ her wish should she wish it, but Roose felt as though he deserved to know the Stark girl's true feelings towards this match, forced or not. It would make the coming days of dealing with his son that much more important. Sansa cast a furtive, apprehensive glance over her shoulders at the hallway that Ramsay had disappeared down, as though she half expected him to pop out of the shadows like some horrible demon and finish what he had intended to start with her.

"No." At first, the Warden of the North thought he had misheard. He blinked, and upon seeing the older man's confusion, she elaborated. "This was as much my decision as it was Lord Baelish's, milord Bolton. If this is but to be my one chance to see home again, then…" Her voice trailed off and she looked away, a lock of auburn hair tumbling in front of her face.

When at last she seemed to regain the power of speech, her pale face drifted back towards Roose, who was regarding the strange creature before him with what could only be described as astonishment intermingled with a newfound respect. "I cannot believe your lord son is as bad as the…tales make him out to be, milord. Surely, there is but an ounce of good within your son, and…" Here, she paused, hesitating.

"Go on." It was not a request. He himself found her to be curious and wanted to know the reasons behind her agreeing to marry Ramsay.

Sansa lifted her head, jutting out her chin defiantly as her blue eyes narrowed until they were mere slits as she fixed the Warden of the North with an interesting look that Roose was not quite sure what to make of.

"I would see that ounce of goodness brought out in him, sire. Besides," she added, and Roose could almost see the sudden shift within the girl as she stood up straighter, taller, prouder, and he could see the shadow of the Queen that she had the potential to be one day. "Your son, a man with his…afflictions, shall we call them," and at that remark, Roose could not help but curl his lips into a sneer at the girl's careful choice of words to describe Ramsay's thirst for blood and pain, "should be grateful for the opportunity to marry me, so that I might help remove this reputation from his name. I should like to try if it please you."

Roose nodded, feeling a newfound sense of respect for the redheaded fair maiden standing in front of him. He thought he saw a shadow dart out of the corner of his eye, and he froze, thinking it to be Ramsay.

When it made no further movement, he scowled, though occasionally he cast wary glances off the side, his gaze flickering between the Stark girl and the corner of the corridor. At last, they reached the stairwell that led up to her chambers. "Speaking of your upcoming marriage, milady," he brought up quietly, lowering his voice so that only she could hear him, on the very strong chance that someone happened to be listening in, "you will need to learn how to please your husband. How to…make him love you. To work with him. It is essential if you ever seek to hold power."

The girl's cheeks immediately flushed pink and she looked away.

"Passion is a mistake," Roose growled, seeming to sense what she was thinking. "As you saw from my son's…little display towards you this evening, his own lust is going to be his end one of these days, of this I am certain. Know this now, Lady Stark, and you may survive us yet, milady."

Sansa quirked her brow suspiciously towards the Warden of the North, saying nothing. It was not only what he had just said to her, but the things he would not say. She could sense that Roose had a reason for speaking to her of such a topic and given that they had arrived at the foot of the stairwell nearing her chambers, he could tell the girl hoped he would arrive at his conclusion. For that, he supposed he couldn't blame her, for Ramsay had put her through a difficult ordeal only moments before. Lord Bolton watched as the girl looked away from him, face red.

"You are still quite young, Lady Sansa. You might feel like giving into it. Do not. This may be my own and only piece of advice to you, Stark."

Sansa gave a curt nod, and made a move to head towards her doorway, a hand outstretched towards the knob, when the girl paused. "Why tell me this?" Sansa could not help but ask, and the girl furrowed her brows into a frown as she craned her neck to look at him.

Roose paused, studying the Lady of Winterfell's features.

"Because you might very well be the one thing that tames my son, Lady Sansa," he replied, no hint of malice or deceit in his cold tone. "You females know much about emotions, feelings. Men, however, do not and we are slower to grasp these concepts. Ramsay is a…difficult man to please," he glanced sideways at the girl and there was no mistaking the flicker of fear that darted through Lady Stark's blue eyes. He sighed and looked at her with those blue eyes touched by storm clouds. No one had ever seen any emotion in them other than contempt. But now they embraced the wind. A brief gust before returning to a calm sea. "You are going to have to be patient with my son, milady Sansa. If you are to survive in this world, you are going to have to learn to live and like his flaws. Yes, even the more boorish ones," he added, a brief smile dancing across his face as he noticed Sansa's dawning look of horror and disgust. "I shall speak of this to you only once, my dear, my reason for telling you this little piece of advice." He quickly leaned forward, closing off the gap of space between them, having to kneel slightly so he was at her level.

Roose heard her let out a little gasp at the unexpected closeness, and he felt himself stiffen, and took a moment to compose himself. He was nowhere near the monster as Ramsay was. He straightened and coughed once to clear his throat, reaching up a hand to smooth at his graying hair.

"What you seek at the end of all this is respect. Not passion, Lady Stark. You must…make Ramsay respect you. It is not going to be an easy task, and for all I know, the boy might very well kill you for attempting."

The Warden of the North gave a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, though there was no mistaking the look of fear in the girl's blue eyes.

" _Good_ ," he growled, not realizing he'd spoken it aloud. "You _ought_ to be scared. Ramsay is an incredibly difficult man to deal with, milady. Do you feel as though you are up to the task ahead of you, Lady Sansa?"

It seemed to take the girl an eternity for her to lift her chin from where she had downcast it to the man's boots, afraid to meet the lord's gaze. Stifling a scowl, he impatiently reached out a slightly calloused, rough hand and cupped her chin in his firm grip and tilted her head up.

"Are you?" he repeated, hating that he had to repeat himself again.

Roose watched as Sansa exhaled a shaking breath through her nose and mutely nodded. When she found her voice again, it was stronger and more confident than he'd ever heard her ever since her arrival to the gates. "Yes," she whispered softly, though there was no mistaking the trepidation in her voice. "I…I am, Lord Bolton. I'm quite certain."

Feeling the tension leave in his shoulders as he exhaled slowly through his nostrils, Lord Roose heaved a heavy sigh and turned away from Sansa.

He did not glance back over his shoulder as he walked away, leaving the Stark girl standing at the entrance to her chambers, looking quite flabbergasted. "For your sake, Lady Stark, I hope that you are right in your assessment. May the gods be with you, then," he growled.

_You'll need it._


	6. Ramsay

**Ramsay**

Ramsay sat alone in his chambers, cold and fuming in his anger, sitting in that desolate pit that had become his world, the only decorations his own nail marks from where he had almost clawed a hole into his favorite armchair from how his nails constantly raked down the sides of the arms.

Stunned. There was no other word for how the young Bolton lord was feeling. Stunned, to the point where he had no words to adequately describe what he was feeling. She had quite literally taken his breath away. So much in fact, that no amount of wine seemed to be helping ease the pounding headache at the back of his skull that caused him to see red and restlessly pace the bearskin rug in his personal chambers, silently seething in rage. The Lady Sansa Stark had somehow seen through to him, and that he simply could not allow. Some people, he knew, were born good and always fought off the bad. Others were born in light and fell to darkness. And others were born in darkness and could not see the light.

He wondered what Roose's motives for arranging this marriage between himself and Sansa truly were.

Oh, he could spout the bullshit of needing her as the final key to maintaining their hold on the North, but Ramsay wondered what Father's underlying motives were for such a match. Roose Bolton was a proud fucking man. He was incredibly ruthless, strict, disciplined, and of high principle. It was of no secret to anyone within Winterfell that Roose did not hold his bastard son in high regard, however much Ramsay might wish for such a thing someday. Father wore his pride like a parapet, washed with bad experience and born more short-tempered than most. A temper that Ramsay inherited, whether that be for ill or good.

Ramsay's nostrils flared like a ravaging beast as the memory of that night flooded his mind like water rushing into a sinking ship. Waking to the sound of breaking glass, shortly after Dominic's death. Father's hands tightening around Ramsay's throat when he was only ten years old.

Roose Bolton had always been a bit of a drinker. It's how Ramsay got his first bruises. And the scars. But what hurt him the worse, why he was the way that he was, was because of the emotional insecurity. The internal brokenness that only a person exposed to such abuse could feel.

His scars caused agony that could only be seen on the inside. Pain that no one else saw because…no one fucking cared about this bastard.

Ramsay had been five years old the first time Roose's hand had hit him across the cheek and he had fallen into the mud with the force of it.

That first time had been the worst.

The crying sniveling little boy at the time hadn't expected Father to be strong but there was weight and strength enough to stun. Though his hand had been empty, it was like being hit with a stone nonetheless, and afterward, he endured Father's words of hated, all spilling from a man that professed so much animosity towards his son.

The sound of one of the maester's crying out for Roose to stay this madness. The back of his hand across his face. It wasn't hard to recall.

After all, this was Ramsay's plight in life. Live in Father's shadow. In his nights, Roose was a monster, and in Ramsay's nights, he was the same. There were times he could not tell the nightmare of his reality from the falsehoods of his nightmares. It did not fucking matter at all anymore.

He had crushed every ounce of self-worth Ramsay gleaned, always failing to disguise how delighted the Warden was to deal his favorite blows. How they were like wine to him, irresistible, and Moorish.

Roose had not chosen Ramsay to love and cherish like a trueborn son, but to whip and destroy him like the bastard, the monster he was.

For power and malice were Roose Bolton's weapons of choice. They lit up Father inside with a sickening glow that shone in those languid eyes. Sometimes, there were moments when Ramsay's gaze fell on the path that passed Winterfell and followed the crackled, dappled path to the woods, where it bends just out of sight. He sometimes fantasized what might happen if he just…stepped on it and just kept going. Fuck the North, fuck his father's plans, and fuck Roose for agreeing to this union.

Ramsay could not seem to shake how the girl had looked at him, with those pleading, desperate, blue eyes. And he had...let her go. He wondered if what he had done for her was...a good thing.

Did one act of, dare he even think it, mercy, make him good?

Try as he might to believe otherwise, Ramsay knew everyone fit into one of these categories, good or evil. He wondered which category Lady Sansa fit into, then. What was she? Light bringer or a creature of darkness? Ramsay snorted and rolled his eyes as he thought of the pathetic way the girl had looked at him in the corridor, and the emotion—the _reaction_ —that she had elicited from him, just by the power of a few choice words and a look. He had never felt such an emotion before, and he wasn't sure what to do with it.

The need for revenge was like a rat gnawing at his soul, relentless and unceasing, and it would only be stopped by the cold steel of a trap, a trap he would devise himself for his future bride.

For to allow her to get away with what she had _said_ to him, he simply could not allow. His need for revenge was like an abscess on the skin of his blackened soul that could only be cured by the cruel sharp steel point of revenge. At that thought, he picked up the dagger laying idle on the small wooden table right next to the flagon of wine one of the serving wenches had brought him earlier. The dagger lay cold in his warm hands.

It was short at four inches but so sharp, even the gentlest of touches to flesh would result in a free bleeding cut. Its handle was carved mahogany and looked almost ancient. It made Ramsay wonder if it had once belonged to another knife. "Probably," he growled, turning it over in his hands. Ramsay held the knife, twisting it over in his palm in the moonlight, as if it could slice up the rays of moonlight themselves. 

Ramsay weighed the knife in his hand. It was no heavier than the types of blades used by the kitchen girls, but would cut on first contact, even with minimum pressure. Its serrations were like waves, but not randomly so like on the cheaper knives. They would slide in smoothly and do maximum damage on the way out, like the barbs of a hook. At seven inches he could keep it easily under his cloak, not his only weapon of course, but a useful back-up in close combat. For some reason when he saw his reflection in the steel his mind flicked to Sansa. And in two days' time, she would be his _wife_.

" _Mine_ ," he breathed, shifting in his seat and crossing one leg over the other, and just saying the word aloud sent a jolt of pleasure down his spine. "I almost had her," he growled, fuming and seething, still stewing over the humiliating way she had rejected him.

He could see her bleeding already and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. His expression was exaggerated by the dark shadows around his eyes. The blade was strong and jagged—more than enough for its purpose.

Sansa Stark had rejected him for the first and only time tonight. He could already see his bride in a pool of darkening blood and his handsome face split into a grin that arced in a sickly way, never making it to his almost sunken eyes. He could picture Sansa pleading, begging, bleeding for him, and just that thought sent the fire to his loins.

Unforgivable, the things she said to him. He would bear a grudge against the she-wolf of Winterfell until he first died or broke the girl, whichever came first. Though it was quite mean spirited, these thoughts he was envisioning of having his bride kneel on her knees before him, broken, naked, ravaged, bleeding and begging, pleading with him to stop, it appealed to his twisted and dark sense of humor, setting that fire ablaze within his loins. That wretched Stark girl was at fault for how he felt.

"How _dare_ she," Ramsay snarled, baring his canines. "The she-wolf is going to curse the day that she did not do as her lord commanded her," he snarled, baring his teeth. "She's nothing but my father's latest pawn to vie for the North. That's all she is. She does not care for the Boltons. For me. Why should she care for us, we slaughtered most of her family, painted this place with their blood," Ramsay growled, storming over towards his armchair, pulling it closer towards the roaring fire in the hearth, staring into the flame's embers as though he could not recall how Sansa Stark had looked at him.

Ramsay inhaled a sharp breath that pained his lungs, unable to part with the visions of her dancing in the forefront of his mind. Her hair, and those eyes, oh, those eyes had caught hold of him again and ensnared him. He briefly wondered which Sansa Stark was. An angel or demon?

_With that red hair of hers, she could be an angel of fire_ , he thought wildly, and shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts. His palm still burned from the places he had touched her, and how, if that insufferable woman would not have spoken back to him, and given him the answer he had hoped for, then he would have had her. By Gods…

Ramsay knew what he was, oh, yes. He had known since he was five years old, when he had flayed his first animal, that the life ahead of him was one of anger, pain, and hatred. Of darkness. Did he want that?

Well, the answer should have been obvious. Of course, he fucking did. Ramsay Bolton lived his life surrounded by fire and ash, poison and death, blood, and intestines. It was the only thing he knew, so of course, Ramsay wanted it, craved it like a drunk man craved more wine at dinner. Not once in his life had he been taught what love was.

What kindness was. In fact, his entire life, he thought he saw just one type of smile, and that was from Father—a smile full of malice and cruel intent. It was all he, Ramsay, this Bastard of Lord Bolton, knew of, really.

The young lord was trained to be the perfect killer. Battle axes, daggers, swords, maces, bows and arrows. Put a weapon in his hand and chances are Ramsay would use it to bludgeon you to your grisly death.

Ever since he was five, Ramsay slaved away, learning ever more imaginative ways to torture and kill a human being. And the boy enjoyed it because he knew of no other life. He'd had no Mother to raise him.

As his thoughts continued to linger on inappropriate thoughts of Sansa Stark, that wretched she-wolf of Winterfell, a light seemed to ignite in his blue eyes, those eye sockets, those pits of icy soulless blue that knew no warmth and did not know what love was. The prickly young woman was developing into quite the problem for the young man. Sansa Stark was a feisty little thing, with a fiery temper and a mind of her own, a meddling brat. Hate and enmity welled up in his heart, fury itself burning him up.

She had…she had _rejected_ him. Because of _her_ , he now suffered.

"Who the hell does she think she is?" Ramsay growled, clasping his fingers together and catching sight of his reflection in a nearby ornate hanging mirror. The mirror near the basin where he washed in the mornings showed him the nothingness of emotional indifference eating away at his reflection, editing a little at a time, showing Ramsay nothing but a demonic monster with a sadistic little smirk and haunted blue eyes.

Ramsay suddenly felt his throat constrict and tighten, becoming dry and sore at the thought of allowing Sansa Stark to get away with what she had done. Thank the Gods there had been no guard in the corridor to overhear their conversation, though if there was one thing he had learned in the company of his father and the like, it was that the walls had ears.

He craved wine; every lungful of hot air robbed more water from his body. There was a great pain at the back of his head that threatened to grow into a powerful migraine, a sure sign that dehydration wasn't far away. If Ramsay had a flagon of water right now, no doubt he would drain the whole goddamned thing, but as it was, he had none, but that would soon be remedied. For this, what he needed, was Reek.

Ramsay needed to give the wretch a task, to keep an eye on Sansa. She would be his, and he would be damned if he were going to allow the girl to best him. Sansa was _his_. _Mine_ , he thought, stifling a growl as he felt his fingers clutch onto the arm of his armchair for support. _A painting for my eyes alone_. How her hair had smelled of honeysuckle and lavender, and the moment he had caught a whiff of her sweet and subtle scent, how he had felt like he was drowning. He needed to calm the excitement in his loins, or else he'd storm right to the girl's chambers right now, rip off her gown in a fit of fury and take her for himself.

And given the fact that he still saw nothing but red, he wasn't sure if he trusted himself not to kill her, given his current erratic mood swings.

Ramsay felt the wild beast within his chest straining, pulling at its restraints. "She's _mine_ ," he growled, curling his hands into a fist.

The thought of the Stark girl with _anyone_ else, _anyone but him_ , was enough to send the young Bolton lord into a wild fury, and before he knew what was happening, he picked up the empty crystal decanter that rested on the side table and with a horrible, agonized roar, flung it into the fireplace, watching in grim satisfaction as the thing shattered.

There was a horrible eerie silence to Ramsay Bolton's soul. He was fall leaves under the frost of an eternal winter. He could feel the chill in his blood, coursing through his veins, hardening his heart, what little was left of it, if he'd even had to begin with, to a block of impenetrable ice.

The coldness brought the synapses of his brain to an utter standstill.

Part of it was a pain, yet one he thought and was certain he could endure, one he could sleep through night after night without the medicine of false hope. This, Ramsay Bolton knew, was his eternal winter. He could only wait for the spring and hope one day for warmth.

All he had ever known was coldness. The emptiness was always there, Ramsay just considered himself decent at hiding it, masking it beneath a vicious smile and a knowing glint in his blue eyes. No one ever dared to question Ramsay about the reason behind his malicious, evil smile.

It hid everything, this emptiness. There wasn't any getting away from it. His nightmares at night, almost constantly now, seemed to help fill it.

With what, Ramsay didn't care to elaborate. They reminded him too much of his childhood, like the emptiness was this horrible demonic entity that followed him around, plaguing his thoughts and dreams.

And this next part, he would never fucking admit it to anyone, but he was so fucking _scared_ of it, but he _needed_ it. He needed to feel…something. He needed something to go to shit, something to be imperfect. Ramsay thought, sadly, that he felt safer in this world whenever something was wrong. He needed it to distract himself, from not everything else around him, but simply put…from himself.

What he thought he needed would never come for him, no matter how much Ramsay sought it out, he knew that he would never have it.

Ramsay was a bastard not born for great things, nor to find his place in the light, for he knew the entire North reviled him as a creature of darkness. He could try every day, and he did in order to please Father, worked for what he wanted and needed out of that fucking bastard, but there were no paths to success towards pleasing the Warden, not as far as Ramsay could see. This among many other reasons, was why he was so bitter and angry, why he tried to hide his pains from the rest of the world.

But then tonight, the she-wolf of Winterfell had _seen_ it. And what was even worse, was he could not seem to grasp onto why he didn't think that wasn't such a bad thing. He could tell the Stark girl was at the very least trying to try to find some sort of invisible silver lining towards their pending marriage. Ramsay had seen in her blue eyes that she was sorry for the question she had asked of him, not having anticipated the reaction he would have. He just wanted things to go back to fucking normal before this auburn-haired beauty had entered into his life. He had barely known her all but a precious two days at best, and she was already leaving an impression on the bastard. Ramsay scowled, knitting his brows together in confusion as he mulled over what to do with Sansa Stark.

Ramsay knew he would have to make Sansa pay, make her sorry, make her feel the torrent of horrible unfamiliar feelings she had instilled within him. He needed a fitting punishment, one that would leave a lasting impact. To plot the perfect way to teach her not to cross him.

And for that…he needed Reek. He needed the boy to keep an eye on the prickly little redhead, to ensure she didn't go around causing trouble.

The last thing he needed right now was rumors running rampant through Winterfell that Bolton couldn't even get a handle on a single female. Ramsay growled with the effort to restrain himself as red spots danced in the forefront of his vision as he thought of how his bride had so coldly rejected his advances. That had never happened to him before.

And this…he could not allow. Every breath he drew in felt like his last, every breath made him ache for it to be the last. Feeling his jaw lock up and tighten, he ground his teeth together, desperate for wine.

Summoning as much air in his lungs as he could muster, he hollered for the accursed wretch, that broken man who used to be a Greyjoy.

But not anymore. All that was left of him was a shell… _Reek_.

"REEK!" His holler reverberated across the room like a clap of thunder, such was his rage at what had transpired in the corridor between himself and Sansa. It was a roar of pure anger and anguish, pure fire.

And the gods help Reek if he was late. He'd flay him, cut off another finger if he were. Maybe gouge out an eye and make him eat it. That would surely teach him.

"That bloody _fool_!" roared Ramsay, reaching for something else to throw. "If he does not show himself, the bloody coward, then I should cut off what's left of his balls and stuff them down his throat. REEK!"

Unbeknownst to the Bastard of Bolton, the tormented soul was standing just outside of Ramsay's door, listening in to every word…


	7. Reek

**Reek**

The man formerly known to most as Theon Greyjoy, now known by another name: Reek, and his life seemed to have departed on separate paths some time ago, ever since he had been taken prisoner by Ramsay. But it was hard to tell who gave up on who first. He walked like his bones, the ones that weren't snapped or broken by Ramsay during one of his fits of rage, were only loosely connected, shoulders moving like a sack of potatoes with every heavy footfall. His dirtied clothes were badly fitting, but the dirt and grime was apparent even from a distance. His nervous, skittish eyes never left the floor and as he passed by other maids and various servants, there was a mumbling of bitter words spat more than spoken and the horrible smell of dirt and shit and piss and hay.

If you were to try to imagine Reek as a baby, a toddler, then an adult, it would be neigh impossible. This new life was just surviving one day at a time, but somehow, his days here in Winterfell, led him to being little more than human surplus: unregarded, unrequired, and unvalued.

Reek stood just outside the wide double oak doors of Master's chambers, which were currently closed. Reek stood, hesitant to enter, glancing down at his worn and dirtied rags, wishing that just once, Master would let him have a long hot bath. He swallowed nervously, wishing with all his might that he could turn around go back down to the dungeons where he belonged. But Ramsay, his Master, was in there demanding of Reek wine, and he was in anything _but_ a good mood.

His broken, battered body started to feel hot and beads of sweat formed on his brow and started trickling down his neck. With every move poor Reek made, he felt his panic well deep within the pits of his stomach. The young man who was nothing more than an empty shell caught sight of his reflection in a broken shard of glass near the heel of his boot and startled, not wanting to look at the repulsive man that stared back. And yet…finding himself unable to look away. Reek, formerly Theon Greyjoy, looked down at his head, running his hand through his dark brown hair, shorn shorter than ever before as one last taunt from Master, so close to the scalp. He would have almost preferred it had Master just cut all his hair off, bald or not be damned, but this...stubble was even worse.

Punishment for being late with the hounds' foods. His hair was now coarse to the touch, all traces of softness gone. He frowned. This was the new him. He was not Theon Greyjoy, not an Iron born anymore. No. He was Reek now. The rags he wore clung to his frame, hanging off parts where they ought not, clinging to him in other parts, dirty, worn. Reek could taste the acidic bile that crept up his throat and lingered on his tongue. Ramsay roared for Reek again. His yell was like a booming bark, not unlike that of his precious hounds that Master doted upon.

It made poor Reek jump like scared rabbits every time. Reek thought Master liked that. He thought it made himself feel extremely powerful.

A powerful chill ran down Reek's spine as he heard Master's yell. It made him shiver like a freezing cold wind would wake someone. His blood ran cold and a bead of sweat dripped down his face. He stood there, helpless, not knowing what to do and too scared to even think.

As the full realization and the consequence of his earlier mistakes finally sank in, in the pit of his stomach, Reek felt the strength leave his legs.

He fought it back, careful not to spill a single drop of wine, reaching out a trembling hand, swallowing hard past the lump forming in his throat. With every move he made as he slowly swung open the set of doors to Master's room, poor Reek became more and more terrified.

Master's armchair was facing away from Reek, seemingly sulking in his oversized chair, his chair turned towards the roaring fire in the hearth.

The fire was Ramsay's tiny sun for the evening, casting long shadows over the bearskin rug. The flames curled and swayed, flicking this way and that, crackling as they burned the dry wood. It was good to feel its warmth at last, even if it was only in one direction. Reek frowned.

Ramsay was impatiently drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair, the cold breeze wafting through the drafty room. Reek shivered, glancing towards the window and saw that Master had flung it wide open. Seven hells, but Master looked so _furious_ with poor Reek!

If the tension in the room were to have been a color, the room would have been painted a crimson, garish red. Reek gulped, swallowing nervous, sinking into an awkward little half bow, heat creeping to his cheeks. Mumbling an apology, knowing it would not be enough, Reek came scampering towards Master's chair, almost spilling the flagon of Dornish wine onto the stones beneath his dirty boots that had holes in them. Reek's heavily lidded eyes were cast to the floor, staring at Master's boots, not wanting to meet Ramsay Boltons' cold, lifeless eyes, as he stared into the fire's depths as though he could not hear Reek's voice.

Poor Reek was panting heavily, having exerted himself in his haste to appear at Master's side, having heard Bolton's agonized roar from the other end of the corridor at the time he had been summoned by Master.

"Y—you summoned me, Master?" he croaked hoarsely, still heaving to catch his breath, one shaking hand holding the flagon of wine, the other clutching onto his ribcage as he gasped for air that simply wasn't there.

"Wine." Came the harsh command as he lazily held out his goblet.

"Y—yes, Master," stammered Reek hastily, all the while averting Ramsay's gaze while he lifted the flagon and poured the Dornish wine.

"Stop." Ramsay commanded in a low drawl, almost sounding bored, as soon as the garish red liquid had practically reached the tip of the rim of his goblet and threatened to overspill onto the sleeve of his jerkin. "Enough, Reek, for God's sake! We're not in a fucking tavern!" he growled in a low warning guttural snarl. "Fucking quit it, you fool!"

"O-of course. S-sorry, M—Master," mumbled Reek, still actively doing whatever he could to avoid Ramsay's piercing blue gaze that always felt like it was burning a hole in the back of his skull whenever he looked at him like he was doing right now. He could tell Master was angry.

How Ramsay barely managed to temper his sniff of disgust at the broken and beaten man currently groveling at his feet in his haste to please his master. Ramsay crinkled his nose in revulsion and stared down his slender nose at young Reek. The young man was a stout thing, long thin fingers, he could tell by the timid look in Reek's eyes that he still held a grudge for Ramsay's removal of his cock. Ramsay smirked.

Though the man hated him, the boy was fiercely loyal to a fault.

Ramsay knew the loyalty came out of a sense of fear, afraid of what Ramsay would do to poor Reek if he ever got it in a mind to disobey a command one day.

But Ramsay knew better than most it wouldn't happen. If it ever did, well, then…Ramsay would just have to kill Reek, then, wouldn't he?

Reek swallowed hard and took a fumbling step back. To the monster seated before him, Reek was simply meat he was meeting, a simple matter of matter to be consumed once the fear had consumed poor Reek.

That was a monster. Reek knew Master saw him as nothing more than a utility, to ensure that all his sadistic, twisted needs were met, of course.

"Do you know what I am, Reek?' Ramsay asked after a while, almost to Reek sounding…amused, which greatly unnerved the broken man.

Was this some kind of trick A trap? Another excuse to hit him? Unsure if he should answer, let alone answer honestly, Reek decided for the safe answer, which was to not answer at all and merely shake his head no.

"I am a person," answered Ramsay steadily, choosing not to look at the man who reeked of dog shit and hay and seven hells knew what else, but instead out the window at the endless piles of snow blanketing the lands.

He watched with a carefully trained eye as the snow began to fall, how intricate patterns of ice floated weightlessly downward from the pure white sky above, each flake swirling and almost dancing, as an icy wind carried towards the ground. Ramsay's eyes narrowed as his hawk-like eyes capable of counting the flaps in a bird's wing caught sight of a blackbird as the thing swooped down to its nest.

The sun was rising, and the thick blanket of snow was now visible. The walnut brown trees swayed in the cold winter wind. Icicles on the trees dropped with a smash. Like glass cracking and shattering. The weather was frosty, and the snow was glittering. Like white sequins laying all over the floor. A chilled squirrel hopped from tree to tree, carefully trotting on branches. The ghostly wind broke the strangely peaceful sound of silence.

Ramsay inhaled a cold breath of air and continued, clasping his hands in front of him, absentmindedly fidgeting with one of his rings on his right hand, admiring the sheen of the garish color of the ruby in the dim light.

"Or I was a person once, Reek. Or at least…I like to think that I had once been a person. But one with blood running down his sides, the perfect fucking picture of misery, reflected both inside and out," he growled darkly, curling his fingers into fists, unclenching and clenching them. Here, Ramsay gestured towards the several dozen scars on his arm, which Reek was only able to see due to the fact Master had rolled up his sleeve, and Reek flinched as he felt Master's strong hand come up to grip Reek's chin in his hand and tilt it upwards, forcing Reek to look at him.

Ramsay Bolton, like it or not, Reek knew, was a fucking monster. How his blue eyes were better than any falcon's or hawk's could ever be, his teeth sharper than knives. He tended to move in the shadows until his victims were in reach, and then he would dart out and take you away.

_To the dark place_ , Reek thought, swallowing hard, beads of sweat dripping down his face. That dank foul-smelling dungeon that stank of blood shit and piss. The place where Ramsay Bolton was happiest.

Ramsay glanced towards Reek and sneered, the edges of his thin lips curling upwards as he scoffed. Reek flinched, trying to avert his reflection of which Ramsay purposely had Reek stand nearby, and failing to not look at. Poor Reek looked like a walking corpse, almost skeletal, who had the look of once being a promising young man full of potential, but now, his pale skin was sickly and pallid, rotting, and smelled horribly.

Even now, as Reek thought this, his own nostrils flared. Like week old tunics or jerkins that had not been washed thoroughly, rotten eggs, rancid old cheese, like nothing in all of the Seven Kingdoms, stomach churning, vomit-inducing, grim, brain-numbingly foul. A wretched abomination.

All of these terms and phrases Master used to call Reek.

Reek flinched as his lord's gaze drifted upward to regard his servant in silence, and Reek felt his cheeks flush an even darker shade of pink in embarrassment. "M-Master?" he whispered. It was all he could say now.

He watched, horrified, as Ramsay Bolton let out a frustrated growl, and Reek froze. In that empty growl of his master's was the pain of the indifferent, of a monster who sold its soul for ease and instead found Seven Hells in his quest for power as he sought the approval of Master's father. "My beauty, if one could even call it that," he snarled, "was never that skin deep, I'm afraid," he sighed, averting his gaze, holding out his wine cup, indicating to Reek he wanted more. When Reek finished pouring, he lifted the cup to his lips and drank heavily, all the while never breaking eye contact with Reek, who shifted his weight nervously and glanced down at the almost half-empty flagon of Dornish wine in hand.

Ramsay slammed down the cup so hard it almost shattered the wood of the table. Reek flinched. "I think Master is looking w-wonderful these days," mumbled Reek, forcing a thin smile upon his cracked, bleeding lips, hoping to cheer up Master, for when Master Bolton was happy, Reek's punishments were lessened, and if he was especially good to Master, then sometimes he would be rewarded with a piece of bread that wasn't moldy, and one of the kitchen wenches had even offered to wash his tunic for him, but he could not.

Not without Master's express permission.

If Ramsay heard his servant's words, he paid them no mind at all. "Father told me once that time could heal all things. I like to think he was talking about me. But I never healed, or even became better, as a matter of fact. There is no changing what I am." He glanced towards Reek, and chuckled as he twirled the dagger in his hands in a slow, almost methodical manner. He watched as the boy's Adam apple bobbed dangerously up and down. Ramsay knew what Reek was thinking.

Finally, Reek caught on to the fact that Master was waiting for him to ask. Hesitantly, he stuck out his bottom lip in a pout and asked, though his mind was screaming at him to remain silent. "A—and what are you?"

Ramsay sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, laying the knife to idle rest against his thigh, not getting up from his armchair. "I? I am nothing more than a…visionary with a dream, Reek. I don't give a fuck what you think of me as long as you obey my every command. I acknowledge that I have…odd methods, but they work." His gaze drifted towards Reek's missing fingertip. " _Don't_ they?" he added, almost as afterthought, grinning as Reek nodded.

"Y-Yes, Master." Seven hells, oh but how Reek wished he were anywhere but here right now. Back in the stalls with the hounds would be preferable to this, stuck in the chambers with Master in his awful mood.

Ramsay continued, irritably waving away Reek's submissive comments with a light brush of his hand. "I am afraid I'm the only one in the entire bloody fucking North that knows what life should be like, and I understand that many things and creatures are inferior to me. In my position, the things I do to them is simply mercy, Reek. I know if I don't save her with the wonders of death, then she will die in the horror of life." Here, he spat the last word as if it were poison on his tongue, and Reek could not help but visibly flinch at hearing the disgust in Master's tone. He knew Master reviled a creature like Reek. But he needed Reek, just as Reek needed and depended on Master, and Reek had no other choice available to him but to loyal to Master Bolton, and so, he would do whatever Master asked of Reek in order to stay alive.

That's just how it was.

"'She', sir?" Reek asked, furrowing his dark brows into a frown.

"That bitch of a woman that dares to call herself a Wolf of Winterfell," growled Ramsay, pounding his fist on the armchair's rest and spilling the contents of his wine goblet. Reek hastened and extended an arm to reach it, but Master's strong fingers, were currently blocking his access as Ramsay shot out an arm and made a grab for Reek's right hand. "The cunt dares to think she can talk back to me that way, she's fucking sorely mistaken, boy," Ramsay exploded, "I cannot allow her to be able to get away with her crimes. She's going to _pay_ for what she did, Reek. I should likely cut out her tongue if she dares to talk back to me again."

"Wh—what would Master do about it, sir?" Reek asked, lowering his voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and he watched as Ramsay swiveled lazily in his armchair to regard his servant in silence.

Almost instantly, Reek regretted asking Master such a question.

"I should kill any other man that looks upon Lady Stark in such a manner that displeases me," Ramsay growled. Reek flinched, but Master gave no indication that he gave a damn. "I have the…perfect job for someone like you, Reek. A very special job. Most of my other loyal men would give their right hand to perform this task for me, but there is no one I trust to do it as well as you could, Reek," he crooned, his voice going surprisingly soft, though the shift in tone put Reek on the defensive. "You do this for me, and I swear by the gods above, that if you do this and don't fuck this up, I might just move you out of those filthy cages down below and into your very own room. Maybe even a _bath_."

A…a _room_? And a hot bath? Was…was Master _serious_? No. It had to be a joke. Master was toying with him. Had the gods finally answered one of many of poor, pathetic Reek's pleas for help? Had they? _No_.

Ah, but the Gods were cruel. They had not proven helpful to poor Reek, no matter how much he prayed for forgiveness, for a chance at freedom. Reek felt his lips part slightly in shock and he shook his head, much like a dog would whenever it found something confusing.

Ramsay stifled the low growl in the back of his throat and continued.

"I want to know what Lady Stark does when I'm not around, who she spends her time with. Keep tabs on my bride, Reek, follow her, study and watch her every move," he growled. "Report that information back to me, and I will take care of the rest," he snapped, a harsh bark to his voice. "That bitch thinks she can talk back to her future husband like that, she is _sorely_ mistaken. That girl is _mine_ , Reek. No one else's."

Poor Reek was rendered speechless. He could practically feel the beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his temples now, and it was a miracle he could even find his voice. "Y-yes, M-Master," he mumbled, hesitantly setting the flagon of wine down and bending at the waist. Though on a normal day, he would have jumped at the chance to prove his worth, something about his master's cold tone gave the servant cause for alarm.

There was a shift in Ramsay Bolton's tone whenever he spoke of Sansa. Anger laced throughout his voice, yes, but…something else.

Something _new_. Something even Reek wasn't sure he could identify.

Reek dipped his head in acknowledgement and offered another awkward little bow in return. "If it is what M-Master wishes, then so it shall be done. You are…good to me, Master. Reek w-will n-not fail you."

Turning away, Ramsay's lips twisted into a satisfied smile, though in the half-light from the fireplace, it looked more like a grimace. He dismissed Reek with a curt wave of his hand. "That's a good lad, Reek. I knew you'd do this for me. Do not fail me. You know what happens if you do, right, boy?" he growled, and it was here he picked up his dagger off the armrest of his chair and began that torturous slow methodical twirling again.

Reek swallowed, his eyes drifting up towards a portrait of Lord Roose. He gulped nervously when he saw there were two black holes where there ought to have been eyes, the oil canvas ripped and shredded.

No doubt the work of the very blade Ramsay held in his hands.

_Help me_ , Reek pleaded to any of the gods who would listen to him. He knew that he would have to do this for Master, as much as it unnerved him to spy on Lady Sansa, he knew better than most what would happen to him if he failed to do an adequate job for Master.

For if he failed Master, he would most assuredly kill him.

Reek murmured a silent prayer under his breath as he gingerly closed the the door behind him, resting his back against the stone wall outside Bolton's chambers for support, clenching his eyes shut and fighting back the beginnings of briny tears.

He held his arm to the light, his skin ghostly in the early morning glow. The worst of Ramsay's bruises were his grip marks, how he liked Reek to be trapped in the dungeons while he raged and screamed. There was a cut above his left eye, the blood from earlier when Master had struck him already dried and browned, and his abdomen from where Master had punched him felt like his guts were on fire. He tried to recall what he had done to warrant such a beating, but nothing came. Poor Reek's skin had ruptured above the growing purple blooms. Every little movement hurt.

Battered, they called it. Such a simple word for a simple idea. But this was not simple. Reek's sense of self, once a high and proud feeling of one destined for good things, now felt as bruised as his abdomen and as broken as the mirror Reek stood in front of. The man wiped the dried blood from his pallid skin and stared into his own empty eyes. Reek barely recognized himself. Who was that in there now and why did he stay? Reek gazed around the otherwise deserted hallway and his face crumpled. He hated this. He stifled a sob with the scuffed palm of his hand and sunk to the floor.

_By the gods, just fucking kill me now and end this torment. Why have the gods forsaken me so_ , he prayed to any of the gods above who would listen to poor Reek's plea. But no one listened.

No one cared.


	8. Myranda

**Myranda**

What the kennel master’s daughter had assumed to be a shadow took the form of a girl. Intrigued, Myranda turned her head towards Winterfell’s newest arrival. She was fully eclipsed by the shade of an old wall, but then she moved into the half light of the morning, and there she was. Lady Stark in all her glory, flicking that perfect red hair to one side in what Myranda knew to be a conscious act. So, Myranda looked.

Small simple studs had been placed in the Stark girl’s perfect lobes, positively exquisite, accentuating the length of her neck. The kennel master’s daughter realized she had held her gaze too long, and she felt the color drain from her face as it blanched, and the girl promptly looked away. Her face was one of triumph and Ramsay did not even have the decency to be embarrassed. But then again, why should he? There was nothing romantic between the two of them. All they did was fuck.

Every time Myranda looked upon Lady Sansa, the bitch let herself hate her, feeling nothing whenever the girl’s face wore a forlorn expression, one of sadness, feeling angry if she resembled anything that was even remotely close to happiness. Myranda bit her bottom lip as she glanced over at Lady Sansa, who was absentmindedly wandering the corridor, her face crumpled and looking like she was trying not to cry.

Myranda felt her hackles raise as the redheaded beauty met the kennel master’s daughter’s eyes and Myranda felt the heat creep across her cheeks. Under her brief gaze, Lady Sansa did not withdraw or flinch, but neither did she step forward to be seen. She stared with that look the other women around here quickly learned to adapt under the Boltons.

The one designed not to give any emotion away. But Myranda knew, the young woman of eighteen still behaved like a child, hiding her delicate side behind a wall, keeping her natural smile under lock and key.

If the kennel master’s daughter were to try to talk to the young woman, Myranda knew that Sansa Stark would undoubtedly be excessively polite, differential even, and it infuriated the young woman.

She could tell the tension that controlled Sansa’s face had always been a part of her life. Were someone to take that away from her, and likely the auburn-haired beauty would reinvent it simply to keep her status quo.

Sansa Stark was a woman of nobility and regal bearing, everything that Myranda hated because she knew that she would never have it as a lowborn. Sansa’s high, delicate cheekbones, small nose, luminescent blue eyes, creamy smooth pale skin like whipped cow’s milk, and silky red tresses that cascaded down her back in gentle waves. She was rather petite and dainty, standing at around 5’2, if Myranda had to hazard a guess.

The Stark girl had a slender, curving waist, which was more than many women around these parts could claim, Myranda included among them, and that was just another reason for hating Sansa Stark so much.

She had childbearing hips, whereas Myranda unfortunately, did not.

Myranda took all of Sansa’s appearance in. Just her black velvet gown embroidered with gold brocade at the dress’s scoop neckline and at the edges of the long flared trumpet sleeves would feed her for a whole _year_ , and she didn’t particularly like how her soft, ivory shoulders were exposed and the girl’s red hair fell down her back in graceful waves.

Her lips had been carefully tinted red, and her pale skin was flawless.

_Yet another reason to hate the bitch_ , thought Myranda meanly. The kennel master’s daughter watched as Ramsay rounded the corner, and Myranda’s triumphant smile quickly evaporated when she noticed her lord shoot the redheaded woman a strange, longing glance.

A glance, it should be noted, that Myranda longed to see whenever she came to his chambers. The man had such a look of lust there. A sharp jab to her ribcage from one of the other girls jolted her out of her musings. “Envy isn’t pretty,” whispered Collette, and kept scrubbing the pot, a lock of her dark hair having tumbled forward in front of her face. Myranda bit her bottom lip in a slight pout and scowled.

Still scowling, she began to vigorously scrub the pot she was scouring out on the floor just outside the kitchens even harder, but she could not help but look at Sansa Stark’s red hair, intricately braided in a light waterfall braid, cascading gracefully down her back, an elaborate necklace adorning the pale, unblemished column of her throat. She wanted it to be her. For Ramsay to look at _her_ that way. How the striking red of the girl’s hair looked like autumn, red against her pale skin almost so white.

Myranda got another jab in the ribs. “Your face looks constipated, Myranda,” growled Collette, annoyed by the other girl’s antics. “Forget Stark.” The kennel master’s daughter watched as Sansa disappeared down a corridor, her eyes were filled to the brim with hatred for Lady Stark.

What was even worse, was how Ramsay lingered but didn’t follow.

Myranda cast her eyes at Ramsay just long enough to catch his red-rimmed eyes and slightly downcast expression. She seethed, bristling.

Empathy was not an emotion she was capable of feeling. She coughed once to clear her throat, quirking a brow at young lord Bolton’s way.

He glared and gave her at first what she thought was an apologetic glance before saying nothing in response, disappearing back towards his study. Myranda, without even realizing she was doing so, followed suit.

Myranda scowled as she found Ramsay seated in his chair. She stood in the entryway with a hip jutted to one side, her right arm draped across her slender body, a tray of wine and bread in the other, which she quickly set aside on a nearby side table. Wrapping her arms around herself as it was fairly cold in here, she grinned, knowing of a way to warm up.

Her head lolled down to one shoulder, casting her hair onto the simple brown dress that was a little big on her, but it would do.

“I found you,” she spoke, and when he did not immediately respond, she furrowed her brows into a frown, tossing her brown hair over her shoulders, thinking that perhaps her lord was just playing hard to get.

Myranda smirked. Out of all the women he fucked, and of which there had been many, dozens, thousands, over the years, they both knew that _she_ was his favorite. A fact that she aimed to keep true as long as possible. She sauntered in, feeling proud and confident. As her brown eyes seemed to gleam across the barren room, she felt like she was to burst with joy at seeing him. The kennel master’s daughter watched in silence a moment at that beautiful face. Well defined, with a sharp jaw and angular cheekbones. The complexion of his skin going well with his ocean-like eyes. He looked down for a moment, pouring himself a goblet of wine and bringing the alcohol to his slender lips, studying Myranda intently. The burning sensation pouring down his throat, creating a warm feeling deep inside his stomach, similar to how she felt when she was with him. When he was inside of her. And now, they could fuck.

Gods, she missed him, though it had only been a few days since their last rendezvous. “Found you,” Myranda repeated, slowly closing the door behind her, and coming to stand in front of his armchair.

“Wasn’t hard, was it?” he growled, his fingers curling into claws around the arm of his chair. He paused and looked at her as she began to undress, stepping out of her dress and shift and letting the garments fall to the floor at her feet, stepping out of her clogs and straddling his lap.

She tugged at his jerkin and shirt, struggling to remove them, pushing him hard back against the chair. He sank down into the cushion of the chair, letting out a groan as she shifted and ground against his growing hardness, still continuing her act of straddling his hips.

He moved to stand as if to get up from the chair and leave her, but Myranda pushed him back down. “Myranda, what…?” he snarled, but she did not give him a chance to answer as she kissed his lips.

She was momentarily surprised as she felt Ramsay tense and stiffen at the gesture and felt herself relax as his hands came up to her neck and found purchase in the back of her hair, tugging out, eliciting a startled gasp of pain from her.

“That _hurt_ ,” she pouted playfully, though there was no mistaking the teasing sheen that danced across her dark eyes that always used to ignite that familiar flame of fire within Ramsay’s ice cold glacier blue eyes.

She pulled away slightly, pulling back to study Ramsay’s face, to look into his eyes. He smelled of pine and wood, though there was no disguising the thick stench of a bloodbath, how when she parted her lips and captured his mouth in a passionate kiss, the coppery tang and its taste settled and lingered on her tongue. Myranda imagined Ramsay entering her again and again as her fingers shook slightly, reaching for his belt buckle. Her mouth let out a moan in ecstasy as she imagined him inside of her. Briefly, she wondered for a moment if on the night Ramsay was to bed the Stark bitch as his wife, if she would let him do the nasty, sexy things he does to Myranda. She probably wouldn’t, the prudish bitch.

Myranda, however, was not. She would do anything Ramsay asked of her so that he wouldn’t tire of her like he was bound to with Sansa Stark.

Their lips fitted together perfectly—as if they were meant for each other. Moving against each other, feeling each other. She let out a whimper of pleasure as she felt Ramsay grab the back of her neck, growling in the kiss as Myranda let out a moan, shifting against his cock.

Ramsay groaned, buying his face in the crook of her neck, biting at the tender skin there, hard enough to draw blood.

“ _No_ ,” he growled, his voice becoming clipped and hard. “Myranda…no…Sansa…” he murmured lowly into the shell of her ear. Myranda stiffened, ceasing her thrusting, Ramsay still fully clothed. She let out a growl and wrenched herself off his lap. He just stared up at her, mouth agape in shock and…utter rage.

“A—are you sick?” Myranda demanded, her cheeks high with color and pink. She took a few stumbling steps backward, brushing her palms on the skirts of her dress as she dressed quickly. “I knew it,” she breathed, feeling her dark eyes grow wide and round with shock. “The Stark wolf has…bewitched you somehow, hasn’t she? Admit it!” she demanded, pointing a shaking finger in Ramsay’s face. She flinched as Ramsay slapped her hand away. Myranda seethed, completely done with his shit.

She walked up to him and tapped his shoulder. When he turned away from the window to look at her, she connected her hand with his cheek, to which he responded in kind with his own hand raised in a fist to hers.

The slap was as loud as a clap and stung her face. It had been an open-handed smack and it had left a red welt behind. Just below her right eye was a small cut where one of Ramsay’s rings had caught her. Myranda staggered backwards, clutching her face, eyes watering with unshed tears.

“Get out,” he growled, no warmth or semblance of the usual charm in his voice that he usually reserved for their time spent together. “Now.”

Myranda felt her jaw lock up and tense, and she ground her teeth in anger, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing. “I know you, you will not hurt me, my love.” She swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat, and cupped Ramsay’s chin in her hand, tilting it up sharper than perhaps she would have liked, for she could have sworn she heard a neck muscle pop. She watched, as one of his veins began to throb.

The kennel master’s daughter’s eyes widened as one of his strong hands came up to grip the column of her throat and squeezed.

“Did you not hear me?” he snarled angrily, teeth bared in anger, hackles raised like one of his hounds. Myranda desperately clawed at his fingers with her hands, trying to get him to relinquish his grip on her throat. “Am I just not getting through to you anymore, Myranda?”

“Please…” she choked out hoarsely. “S—Stop…” Usually, the sound of her begging sent a fire to his groin, though today, it only seemed to fuel his wrath even further, and she watched as a light ignited in his eyes.

So, Ramsay was finally unfaithful to her. Oh, she knew he fucked other women, of that he had never been discreet, nor had she in taking other men, but she had thought their bond immune, until the Stark girl came sauntering through the gates of Winterfell, back to her home.

Piling reproach after reproach upon himself, Ramsay was about to add Myranda to his growing list of past brutalities. And this was the beginning of the end. Myranda was more than maddened, and she coughed, gasping for air as she felt his grip on her throat slackened and violently shoved the kennel master’s daughter off his lap, looking thoroughly disgruntled.

But…she… _loved_ him. _She cared for him_. Myranda blinked owlishly as the realization hit her full force. Wait, that’s not what she wanted to say. She had made excuses for Ramsay time and time again. And now she knew the truth. That he did not care for her in the way that she had secretly hoped. Myranda had given him all that she had and more, but he never even acknowledged it. He was stopping all of their rendezvous. For _her_. Myranda felt an incredible welling in her chest as fury felt like it was pouring out of her every orifice at what Ramsay had almost done to her.

“You do not care for me, my love,” she whisper-hissed, clenching and unclenching her fists by her sides as her arms fell, not knowing what to do. Myranda was just a placeholder for someone that was taking her place. Except the Stark bitch was going to _marry_ Ramsay. Be his _wife_.

_I’m nothing to you anymore, am I?_ Myranda thought, unable to voice that thought. She stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout. One look over at Ramsay was more than enough for the kennel master’s daughter.

_I fucking hate you. And I miss you. And I hate you. And I miss you_. These conflicting thoughts were swirling around in Myranda’s head, and she felt dizzy still, though she still supposed that was from her violent coughing spell as she clutched at her throat, still gasping for much needed air. She drew in a sharp breath of air that sent swells of pain down her back and lifted her chin to meet Ramsay’s gaze. By the gods, he really was a bastard, wasn’t he? She swallowed nervously, thinking now how goddamned unnerving it was to see the eyes of a snake glaring at her from a human head, one bereft of affection, devoid of conscience at all.

Over the course of their… _relationship_ , if she could even call what they had that anymore, Myranda had watched Ramsay ‘work’ many times, the powers that be (namely him) finding it useful to make her watch, sometimes even helping, whenever he beat and flayed a prisoner.

Ramsay seemed to only ever smile when cutting someone, his emotions otherwise cold throughout. That man did not need to be afraid to kill or any semblance of self-defense. Causing pain was his addiction and fucking as many women as he could, though it would seem the she-wolf of Winterfell had gotten the Bastard of Bolton’s skin already, and for that, Myranda hated her. By the gods and seven hells, she _loathed_ her.

Over the years, Ramsay had become part of the bedrock of Myranda’s personality. And now…this. It would have been kinder if he had just killed her, and since he hadn’t, Myranda was now going to be forced to be this person filled with a bitterness for both Stark and Bolton that she would not be able to control. Sansa was to be Ramsay’s _wife_ , the _mother_ of any children they might sire together. The girl Ramsay had met all those years ago hiding in the kennels while she watched the young boy work with his hounds, beasts, every last one of those accursed creatures, the one with the big brown eyes and curious mind now felt herself being consumed with a hatred Myranda never knew could take root in her mind. But here it was. Here they were together, and Ramsay was finished with her, it would seem. Myranda would be forced to be one of that whore’s maids, braiding her hair, helping her dress, fetching her water for a bath, bringing the two of them meals…trying not to imagine them fucking each other’s brains out in Ramsay’s own bedchambers. Gods…

All the while the kennel master’s daughter would be forced to smile and make small talk with that cunt. The hatred Myranda felt for Sansa—for both of them—didn’t ebb, it multiplied. Myranda swallowed past the lump forming in her throat, finally after an eternity spent in silence, found her voice again. “Your bride really is quite a pretty little slip of a thing, isn’t she? Very delicate.” Myranda let out a low growl from the back of her throat that didn’t sound very menacing, and instead came out as more of a low demure purr. “I saw you staring at her. At Sansa.”

She could hear the jealousy and envy and insecurity drip from her words like poisoned honey. Myranda’s scowl deepened, creating lines upon her forehead and a deep groove near the edges of her mouth as Ramsay rolled his eyes and sighed, wearily rubbing his temples as though the kennel master’s daughter’s incessant lines of questions were giving him a splitting headache. _Good_ , she thought meanly to spite Ramsay.

“She’s to be my _wife_ , Myranda. I’m going to marry her on the morrow. That typically involves looking at her from time to time.”

His tone was clipped and hard and rapidly losing his patience.

Myranda’s next question that burned on the tip of her tongue seemed to tumble out of her mouth before she could manage to restrain herself.

“Do you think she will enjoy it? Fucking you, that is,” she growled.

The kennel master’s daughter watched as the man’s dark-haired ebony head whiplashed upwards, blue eyes silently seething in his anger.

Myranda could feel her heartbeat pound in her chest as she looked at him, hardly daring to believe what she saw that lay therein in his eyes.

_Fear_. The feared and reviled Skinflayer, the Bastard of Bolton, that Beast, was… _afraid_. Afraid of a little _girl_ whose hair had been kissed by fire. She froze, daren’t moving though Ramsay had gestured for her to leave, and she felt her feet moving of their own accord, taking one step towards the door, then another, though her mind was screaming at her to turn around. She felt frozen to her spot. Heart pounding in her chest.

The paralyzing hurt at what Ramsay was initiating spread through Myranda’s body like icy liquid steel. She clenched her fists as she hesitantly took each step forward, inching ever so closer to the door.

Myranda noticed her feet trembling and her legs twitched, fighting the impulse to whirl around, and hit the bastard who was ruining everything.

The kennel master’s daughter felt her throat close up in threat of screaming at Ramsay bloody murder, feeling trapped and hopeless.

Her jaw clenched and became tight, her teeth grinding together in anger. Fires in the form of water stung her dark brown eyes, threatening their attack. Myranda bit her lip, casting one last lustful, longing glance towards Bolton, who had turned away from her and was staring out the window at something, though at _what_ , Myranda had a feeling she could guess. _Her_. Salty blood lingered on her tongue as she clamped down.

The kennel master’s daughter felt her brain pick up her feet in an unbalanced gait, carelessly dropping her feet to the ground with each harrowing step. Her stomach felt full of stones, and the thick acid of her stomach layering coated at the back of her throat, and she thought she might vomit. Ramsay Bolton had grown bored of Myranda at last.

And she was helpless to do a goddamn thing about it. That was all.

Still, something about the forlorn look in the man’s blue eyes prompted her to ask one final question, one last taunt to the man who had ruined everything with one simple choice word. _Her fucking name_.

“Do you think that she could ever grow to _love_ you?” Myranda growled, biting her bottom lip until she felt the blood coat her tongue and the edges of her teeth. “Hmm?” She folded her arms across her chest and watched, feeling a sick immense of satisfaction as Ramsay startled.

He clearly hadn’t been anticipating her question and it had thrown the bastard of Bolton off-guard. “Just get out.” His voice cracked, wavering.

Myranda sneered, masking her hurt with a look that she had perfected over the years. A look of ‘perfect impassiveness,’ if it please you.

She slammed the door to his chambers on the way out, loud, and hard enough that it rattled the doorframe, though Myranda hoped it was enough to rattle his stupid brain in his stupid fucking skull. Anger at the Stark wench boiled deep in the kennel master’s daughter’s system, as hot as fire and just as destructive, if not more. It churned within, hungry for destruction, and even Myranda knew it was too much for her to handle.

The pressure of this raging sea of red that she felt pounding at the back of her skull would force her to say things to others that she did not mean, or to express her true thought that she had been suppressing for weeks.

Myranda knew she had to get out of everyone’s way before she likely erupted in her furious state. She hoped in time this feeling would pass, but as long as the Stark woman was married to Ramsay, it would linger.

She was well aware she could really hurt people in her agitated state.

So, she escaped. She ran towards the Godswoods, that place of peace.

Myranda allowed her swirling vortex of hateful thoughts towards the Stark bitch and Ramsay to consume her, relishing the curse words that poured from her tongue, spewing from her mouth like black putrid bile.

The Godswoods were the only place that she felt like she could really truly just…let go. Of everything. The kennel master’s daughter allowed the darkness of the wooded canopy above her head swallow her whole for a little while, and her hatred coursing through her bloodstream for Sansa Stark strangely enough, in its own way, calmed her from head to toe. Myranda felt like she was slowly emerging from the rage and anger she had possessed only moments ago, and once she reached the heart tree, that gorgeous weirwood tree, Myranda stopped and glanced up at it.

That luscious white bark with the five-pointed blood red leaves and sap. She glanced up at the tree in all its beauty and felt as though the magnificent thing was slowly allowing the anger that she felt to dissipate from her, and Myranda did not deny that at least, for the moment it felt nice. She felt calmer than she had before. Myranda felt… _free_.

Feeling the beginnings of a wicked smile curve at the corners of her lips, she hummed a little ditty in a low tune she’d heard old Hilda sing in the kitchens the other night.

Myranda knew what she to do to be rid of Sansa Stark.


	9. Sansa

**Sansa**

By the gods and the light of the seven, what the hell had she _done_? The only things that could save her from the demons of her tomorrow, of facing an entire evening in Ramsay's company at that hellish dinner with all of the other lords and nobles of Winterfell, was sleep. Sweet, precious, blissful, dreamless sleep. A rested mind, Sansa knew, would have the sharpness to make the kind of decisions that could be the difference between life and death for her while she remained here.

However, the darkness would not come for her. She remained in her chambers in that inky blackness, not even bothering to change into her shift, and she collapsed upon the mattress, her red hair splayed out on either side of her like a fan, intertwining her fingers together and resting them on her stomach. What in the seven _hells_ had she just done tonight?

In her sleeplessness, Sansa felt drunk on silence. For the next several minutes it seeped into her pores, dowsing her frazzled mind in its thick toxicity. The usefulness of her thoughts had left her long ago, hours at best. Sansa ground her teeth in anticipation of what the morrow faced.

Undoubtedly, there would be seven shades of holy hell brought down upon her by Ramsay once she was forced to face that boorish oaf again.

Her thoughts felt like they were firing a million miles a minute like a thousand arrows released from a crossbow—flailing without any direction. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and buried her face in her hands, wanting so much not to think at all, wanting nothing more than to be absorbed into the darkness that the night promised her hours ago. She wanted to be waking refreshed to streaming white winter day shine, unaware of the hours between then and right now.

But as usual, Sansa's wishes meant naught and behind her closed eyelids the idiocy continued, as the young woman cursed her own _stupidity_. How in all the Seven Kingdoms could she have been so _foolish_?

There was a tenseness to her muscles that made her feel more like a corpse on this soft mattress made of goose feather down rather than a woman of flesh and bone. Gods, she wanted so much to melt onto the soft mattress and drift into that sweet world of dreams, in a world where her Mother and Father, Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard were reunited and happy again, Arya by her side, and of course, her brothers. She would be married—happily—to a charming man who would treat her like a queen.

And yet, her brain was a violent whirl of stupidity, trying to organize the chaos of her thoughts, her mind mulling over Ramsay words to her.

_We are to be married. We should…get to know each other, yes?_ And then later, _you think this is resolved, little dove, but it is far from over. You asked me what I wanted. I want you_. How the words had escaped and tumbled from his lips had been little more than an animalistic growl.

And oh, the things she had _said_ to him! By the Gods, what had she been _thinking_? Were Sansa senseless, she might have preferred it, but this…this was almost too much to handle. Sansa knew exactly what she had been feeling then, why she had said it. To prove Ramsay's anger, to make him see that he was a monster. "This is no place of joy, and you are no angel or god." Sansa found herself whispering the very words she had spoken to Ramsay. The young woman furrowed her delicate brows into a frown as she knit her fingers together and stared mindlessly up at the ceiling, nervously weaving her fingers in between her knuckles, beads of a strange cold sweat beginning to form on her brow. "I'm sorry, Father. Mother," she whispered, hating how she could hear the crack in her voice. "I—I wasn't…strong enough. To—to take back our home…"

Home. This…this was not home.

She swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat as her mind fought to demand a solution to a problem she did not know if she would be able to solve. Her mind sought to discover a way to control the capriciousness of the Boltons, particularly Ramsay, since she was to wed the bastard, to find a way to acquiesce and please the man as Roose had suggested that she do, so that their encounters were a little softer, less violent. Such a task, she knew even now, was pointless. Though her conscious brain knew all this, her subconsciousness remained stubborn in its feeble attempt to protect her, to ensure her survival for another day.

Ironic, really. What she needed to survive tomorrow was sleep. At least six hours would be nice, though Sansa would settle for four. But for that to happen, she would have to be out in less than five minutes and not even the small vial of poppy milk she had retrieved from her personal effects off the night table by her bed could do that in such a short time.

Her heart felt like it was pounding against her chest in its cage, threatening to break free if she could not find a way to calm herself.

Sansa closed her eyes, trying to focus on regulating her breathing back to something that closely resembled normalcy, but the swelling anxiety bubbled inside her rib cage. Suddenly, she felt quite sick to her stomach.

Her chest felt hollow, and then all at once it was filled with a horrible buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing. Her face felt numb, her heart empty. For she was certain that on the morrow Ramsay would kill her.

Gods only knew how many unspoken rules she had broken by daring to speak her mind against what he had tried to do to her moments ago.

Ah, gods, how she had heard the intensity in his tone and felt the tension his body had been giving off. There had been a great deal of emotion behind the words Ramsay spoke to her, whether he was aware of it or not was a different matter entirely. How the words had flown from her mouth that Sansa had never believed she would even think, let alone say out loud, let alone to the man who was to be her husband.

She had known instantly from that look in his eyes that they'd hit their mark, and in that moment, nothing would ever be the same again.

Sansa had swallowed her anger when it was simply a fire seed and forgot to drink something cool, and so it grew in the pits of her stomach until it came out as hot as any dragon of Westeros had ever flamed…on the person that she hated the most. Sansa did not think she would ever forget how he had looked at her, how that fire had burnt him to ash.

Every word had stung, only fueling that dragon fire which burned inside of Sansa, as she recollected the horrible things Ramsay had said.

Unable to bear her mindless staring at the ceiling anymore, she bolted upright from her bed and strode over towards the window, glancing up at the moon. Amid the starlight was the ever glow of their moon, that mother of the sky who watched over every beating heart, steady and true. Seeing the towering turrets of Winterfell just above, just outside her window, Sansa was reminded of that beast, whose clutches she had miraculously somehow managed to escape from. Sansa bit the inside of her cheek as she felt an uncomfortable churning pit in her stomach.

Her betrothed had demanded of her something that, perhaps in his life, was simple and ordinary. Sansa knitted her brows together in confusion. She had heard talk ever since arriving home if she was silent enough to listen in to the whispers among the maids that Ramsay had dalliances with other women in the past, most of them servants, maids.

From what she could fathom given the hushed whispers as the staff of the castle gossiped amongst themselves, most of the maids claimed to have enjoyed the dalliances, that the girls accepted because they benefited from being in Ramsay Bolton's good graces. Whether or not he paid them for their services, Sansa didn't know, nor did she particularly _want_ to know.

A part of Sansa, however, could not help but feel ashamed. Those girls, in their own way, were true survivors. They sacrificed much so that they could live on another day in a rather mundane, boring existence.

Sansa, on the other hand, realized she could never give herself away like that. Not to Ramsay, especially, for he had shown her no respect.

_Respect_. Sansa hissed as she recollected his lord father's words to her only about fifteen minutes ago standing outside the doorway to her room.

_You must make him learn to respect you. Be patient with Ramsay._

At hearing Lord Roose Bolton's words echo in the forefront of her mind, she almost threw back her head and laughed. Be _patient_? With _him_? Ha! The very idea of that thought was ludicrous at best. After what he had almost done to her, she was quite certain if she had not said what she had in order to provoke him into releasing her, that he would ravaged her right there in the hallway, not giving a good goddamn who saw it.

_His hatred of me is nothing but a transformation of his own shame and insecurities_. More of Roose Bolton's words spoke to Sansa in the moment. It is all that Ramsay hates about himself yet lacks the courage to face. It is far easier for my son to lose himself in the theatrics of his own mind than it is for him to swallow even an ounce of the bitter hard truth.

All Ramsay did was beat down a person who's already had more than their soul and body could take, several times over. She knew of what Lord Roose was asking of her, as Ramsay's bride. For her to help Ramsay find his own way out of his vicious cycle of self-hatred. And for her to perhaps see who Ramsay Bolton really was under the ever changing illusions created by her own mind. Ramsay was a man of many talents.

But a man who cared, he was not. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and shoved her knuckles into her mouth and bit down harder.

Ramsay Bolton was a callous man. She had seen it in the corridor. Callous was when a person stepped away from love, their empathy and emotional self, to a place of cold, detached logic. Where it was easier.

However, it was then that people like Bolton made errors, grave ones. A terrible error that led them down the wrong path in life by their nose.

Men like Ramsay chose to analyze the situation from a point of view of their own selfish gain, uncaring of the pain they might cause to others.

She had foolishly and naively assumed that Ramsay would be cool and collected as he escorted her towards the library for a book, there had been no warmth in his crystal blue eyes, which had stared at Sansa with such contempt and disgust that she was sure the temperature in the corridor had dropped ten degrees just by the animosity of his true personality.

And then there was that moment when he'd ordered of her to submit to him, Sansa had in a moment of courage fueled by memories of Lady Catelyn, she had stood her ground, planting the heel of her boot firmly in the stones beneath her feet, prepared to fight him kicking and screaming if need be. Despite Ramsay's savage snarling and growling like one of his hounds, Sansa did not waver from her position or her opinions of him.

But… Sansa shivered, clutching herself and drew in a sharp intake of breath as she recollected how her future husband had looked at her, then.

There had been that moment where Ramsay had caressed her cheek, had stroked hers with surprisingly gentle tenderness that was unlike him.

Sansa exhaled slowly through her nostrils and opened her eyes. What on earth had that been about? Unlike the beginning of their conversation where he had seemed so smug and confident in his arrogance, here he had almost looked bewildered. _Lost_. _Confused_. _Like a scared little boy_.

As to why he had looked that way, Sansa had no idea why, but it made her feel uncomfortable. Ramsay had looked…almost vulnerable.

Thank the gods he had relinquished his grip upon her wrist after that.

Sansa bit her bottom lip, sticking it out in a slight pout and blinked back briny salty tears, trying to hold the tears that threatened to leave her eyes. There had been hope before, she remembered, why she had agreed to Lord Baelish's initial proposal to marry her off to lord Ramsay Bolton.

Just a tiny flicker against the wind. And Sansa had foolishly reached out to her intended with the open eyes of a child, thinking that perhaps she could change him, her fingers extended towards Ramsay.

Tonight, in that moment between them in the corridor that she longed to bury deep in the recesses of her mind, content to never think of it again if she could help it, Ramsay had a choice of kindness or cruelty. It took no time for her betrothed to decide at all. He had seen that dying ember and brought the winds to a cold howl. Why and how was Ramsay's thinking so different from her own, so… _foreign_? _Why_? Surely, someone, at some point in his life had shown him care, what it meant to be compassionate. Was his upbringing really so _horrible_ that he had no regard for Sansa's honor? How was it he had seen her suffering and chose to make it all the worse? Her ear was still bleeding from where he had bit down on the tender skin of her lobe, almost ripping her earrings off. The man she was to marry was a monster. But…then, just when she thought surely, she was doomed and him taking her for himself was to be her fate, then…he had let her go. Sansa bit down on her tongue even harder, blinking back her tears, and that's when she couldn't hold back.

Sansa shuddered, feeling a tremor of fear go down her spine, and the chill she felt wasn't from the cold breeze that wafted through her chambers given that she had flung open the window for some fresh air.

That moment when he had violently grabbed her face and shoved her up against the stone wall, that was the moment she truly became frightened of her future husband. There was something dangerous about Ramsay. Roose had been right about his son in that regard, and he knew the bastard better than most. This Sansa knew to be the truth. Ramsay was a man who was unpredictable, unhinged, that wild look in his eyes…

One moment, he had been smiling humorously down at her, making a quip of his own as to how she could be lost within the confines of her own home, and the next he was horribly sneering at her with that wicked smirk of his, and then touching her with surprising intimacy and tenderness. Much like a lover would. Not at all like the violent behaviors she had been warned and told to prepare to expect of Ramsay from Littlefinger. Ramsay had been positively seething, fuming in his rage.

Those cobalt blue eyes of his that were, she supposed, perhaps under different circumstances, quite kind had he been raised in an environment of love and caring, taught how to respect women and men of lesser status.

Sansa had been fully prepared to expect of Ramsay to rape her right there in the hallway against the wall, but that way he had looked at her.

The torment and anguish ridden on his face, the likes of which she had thought she would never see, least of all not a man like Ramsay.

First, one small crystal bead escaped from her right eye. She could feel the warmth sliding down her cheek and rolling off her chin.

Then another. And another. Until her eyes flooded with them, coming like a rainfall. Sniffing every ten seconds, Sansa angrily reached up a hand and wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her gown, letting her salty tears fall. Sansa wept, burying her face in her hands, releasing the sadness and sorrow that had been held inside of her ever since returning to Winterfell, but still, she did not make a sound. At the same time, she wondered if it was better to rack her body with noisy sobs and let the world know of her pain, or to slowly release that pent-up emotion within herself with silent tears? Her tears were what showed her soul, the silence of her crying was eerie, like Sansa had been forced to learn how to cry like this. What would it take to mend a soul as damaged as hers, and who would try? Both Roose and Lord Baelish were utter fools if they thought Sansa herself had a chance at leading Ramsay, saving him away from his solitude. And Sansa had seen something within Ramsay earlier, a vulnerability that even she knew he did not let others see that side of him.

Sansa, even as young girl, had always had the uncanny ability to see the goodness within others, even when perhaps and especially, when that person could not see it for themselves. Her father had used to tell her that a beautiful woman felt beautiful within, from the love she would give to her ideas and the creative ways she learned to express her soul. That she would be one who wrapped her arms around the soul of the world, of all who loved her and those who needed to learn to love. Men like Ramsay.

That was beauty, and if he could learn to see that too, then Sansa knew that Ramsay would be smarter than most of the men in all of the seven kingdoms. The only problem was that Sansa did not know how to make that happen for him, and she wasn't entirely sure that she could.

Ramsay Bolton, that bastard of Roose's, legitimized or not, was a killer, and Sansa knew that men like Ramsay with no regard, no morale compass of what was right or wrong, were not so easily swayed by the likes of someone like her. Ramsay was a killer, and the legend, the whispers among the servants of Winterfell's estate said his heart had died in his chest cavity long ago, when he was but a boy of only five years old.

That he had…putrefied somehow and made a heavy slime about his lungs as thick as the underworld's tar. That's how Ramsay Bolton became a killer and perhaps why. This next part, Sansa wasn't entirely sure how much of this rumor held true, but it was rumored that the witches of the northernmost part of the kingdoms said that Bolton's emptiness was his madness, his torment. It was why he took a life over and over again, as if he may possess the hearts and souls, yet that was never so for the bastard.

Sansa frowned, with the nail of her left thumb in her mouth as she glanced outward down in the courtyard, biting down harder than she intended and swallowed the fragment as she thought of the next part of the tales told by the fires, in hushed whispers about Ramsay Bolton.

To be healed, someone pure had to love Ramsay, to reform the murderer's heart as if it were made of the finest, delicate of clay, and then set it to beating with pure nature's essence. So, until he could find such a being to forgive all of his transgressions that he had committed, to break the universal scales and set Ramsay's heart and soul free to begin anew…

The killing would go on. Sansa let out a half-choked sob and stifled it with the back of her hand. By the gods, she did not want to do this, but this had been her choice to return home. She had, perhaps against her better judgement, agreed to the marriage, and now, here she sat in the pit of darkness that was her world. It felt like every time she reached out with love to someone up there, someone she hoped to throw her a rope, the floor sinks a little lower, jolting her body as it stops—crushing her with another new pain, another abandonment. Perhaps now was the time for Sansa to realize that it was not she who she was supposed to get out of this pit of despair, but _him_. And so, Sansa, still blinking back briny tears, allowed her eyes to become accustomed to that darkness she knew he dwelled in for all of his life, and could see that intermingled with the marks of her own nails were his too, older though, the blood long dried.

_I'll get him out, if it's the last thing I ever do here, then I will. Because that's how I know that I can love like Mother and Father always told me I was born to, that I can put another first, even one as vile and cruel as Bolton, even when my own winter is at its darkest_. Sansa coughed once, blinking away the last of her tears and exhaled slowly through her nose.

Though every last inch of Ramsay Bolton repulsed Sansa, she knew she was going to have to marry the boorish fiend and try to reach him.

Just that thought was enough to make the bile creep to her throat. The dread at her current predicament owned her, pushing against her ribcage like an invisible gale, attempting to reverse her steps back towards the bed as her body ached and screamed for sweet, precious sleep.

Dread at her upcoming marriage to the bastard rendered Sansa's stomach locked up tight, nothing getting in or not. Dread set her face like rigor mortis; her teeth clenched tightly together. But unless it could turn back time to a time when she was the happiest, drag the sun from the sky and allow Ramsay Bolton to forget the things she had said to him, she knew her time had come. And Sansa could not stop it, reverse it, or slow it down, however much she might wish for that to be the case to help.

Each minute that passed dragged Sansa forward, helpless, and nervous to the allotted time of the stupid dinner with those noble lords and ladies.

Sansa could no more avoid it than she could ignore the pounding of her own heart as it pounded with futility against its cage of bone and cartilage. The dread felt like an invisible demon sitting heavy on her shoulders and only Sansa could hear the sharpening of its vicious claws.

Sansa felt the beads of sweat begin on her brow and then the tremor at what she knew she had to do began again in her hands, shaking violently.

The dread crept over her like an icy winter chill, numbing her brain. In this frozen state, her mind offered her only one thought. It's today.

There was no avoiding it, that bloody dinner Ramsay had planned.

She felt like a cow being herded towards the slaughter pen, only the cow didn't know where it was going, and Sansa, unfortunately did.

Straight into the Angel of Death's arms. That angel…was Ramsay.

Gods help me, she pleaded, mumbling a quick prayer under her breath to any of the gods who would listen. But no one answered her.

Sansa was alone.


	10. Aleyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Introduction to an original character lies within. Why? Because Sansa needs someone on her side, that's why lol. I know not many like original characters for whatever reason, but he kind of plays an important plot in the plot ahead, so it felt wrong not to include him. Hope you enjoy!

**Aleyn**

The soldier stood stiffly at the gates of the courtyard, shifting his weight on one foot to scratch at an itch on his armor's breastbone. He had thought, because he had once grown up in the violent streets of the slums of Westeros that the young man had seen everything. But nothing could prepare him for the life of an archer working under the Boltons.

He had seen friends, allies, and his foolish brother who followed in his older brother's footsteps, all die. But then, he had done the same to enemy soldiers. The young man, whose name was Aleyn, either would die in combat defending their lords Roose and Ramsay Bolton, or they would learn to live with the guilt of what his own hands had done.

The young bowman, who looked barely a day over twenty-one, was short and muscular, with square, broad shoulders and black, close cropped hair that was barely two inches long. Aleyn of House Brooker had a handsome face, if one were to look close enough, made slightly uneven by his nose, which had been broken at some point in times long past.

Aleyn stifled a pained wince as a gust of cold wind traveled through the grounds of Winterfell as he grabbed his horse by the reins of the bridle and let the stallion on, ignoring the agitated whinnies of the beast.

A vibrant flash of red against white darted out of the corner of his vision, and the young man stifled a smile as he paused, sensing the Lady of Winterfell's presence as she walked towards him, a shy smile plastered upon her pretty features. Her cobalt blue eyes were fixated on his horse.

"She's beautiful," Lady Sansa complimented warmly, though Aleyn was fixated on how the young girl walked, how at times she would close her bewitching blue eyes to take in a deep breath of frigid cold snowy air.

Then after each stride after that, how she took on a look of feeling more in charge of her own future, in command of her mind, body, soul.

Sansa Stark was a young woman walking into her own destiny out here in these godswoods, a destiny that lay squarely in her own hands.

Her red hair, so striking against skin so pale, fluttered in the air, her gown clung to her body, arms tightly wrapped around her, clutching at the fastenings of her cloak in order to keep the violent wind gusts from wrenching the garment off of her. Even Aleyn could feel the cold wind striking his skin, wanting to tear his armor off with one good strong gust.

Almost as if he were the enemy. As a few teardrops appeared in the corners of the Stark girl's eyes, the redheaded woman continued walking, not seemingly stopping for anything until she reached the soldier and mare. Raising a finger to her lips, signaling Aleyn to keep the secret, she procured an apple from behind her back. "The kitchens shan't miss one apple, I should think," she teased, offering the soldier a little smile. "May I give it to her?" she asked shyly, eyes cast downwards, jerking her head towards the mare that Aleyn had been leading back towards the stables.

It was time to breed this one and the mare with the copper colored coat and mane was agitated, occasionally letting out a frustrated snort.

"You may, but mind your thumb," Aleyn advised. "This one's rather feisty, milady. Known to bite." The young soldier, formerly of King's Landing, watched as determination seemed to propel Sansa Stark forward.

Her face wiped clean, as if a blanket had been pulled down to hide her emotions, she hurried to close the gap of space between herself and Aleyn. Either she did not notice or chose to ignore how the young bowman stiffened suddenly at being so close to none other than Bolton's bride. _Off limits_ , his mind was screaming at him to turn the bloody hell around, and not so much even as look at her, lest Ramsay find out.

"Has she a name?" Lady Stark asked, and it was a moment before Aleyn realized she was asking after the mare's name. He stammered.

"I—no. But…every good beast needs a name," he found himself saying. "You may give her a name if you should wish it, milady."

Sansa paused, a soft smile creeping onto her face as she tapped her chin thoughtfully. That smile was the prettiest thing Aleyn had seen in a while, for it extended to her eyes and deep into Lady Sansa Stark's very soul.

Aleyn could see how it came from deep inside to light her eyes and spread into every part of her. A person smiles with more than their mouth, and he could hear it in Sansa's voice, in the choice of her words.

It was beautiful. After a while spent in silence, thinking over the options, she spoke up softly. "Lya," she answered eventually.

"Beautiful. Then Lya she shall be, and I should give her to you, milady," Aleyn murmured, though his words carried a double meaning, and instantly, the young bowman hoped she would never learn it. It was beginning to get dark, the coming night teasing the sky into twilight. Aleyn knew the lady of Winterfell would not come outright and say it, though he could tell by the way her delicate brow furrowed into a frown as she fed the majestic mare the apple out of her hand that something was ailing her, for her troubled, forlorn expression prompted Aleyn to overstep his boundaries and ask of Sansa Stark a simple query.

Sansa blushed and dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Thank you." The fear sat heavy on her heart as she stood there, her eyes plastered to the forest ground as she stared at the edges of her simple brown boots. The cold painted bright red upon her already rosy cheeks and the wind threw her fiery red hair around aimlessly, though just the thought stirred a sudden warmth and an inexplicable fondness in Aleyn's chest. He couldn't seem to find his voice. The young bowman felt his cheeks flushed hot, and his stomach felt like it was full of stones. His heart pounded in his throat, threatening to break out. Sansa Stark's eyes wandered the length of the godswood, her gaze fixated on the heart tree.

Aleyn's eyes, however, remained locked on Lady Sansa's figure. He felt like his entire body as she turned and regarded the young bowman and his horse with those inquisitive blue eyes of hers and suddenly, he became painfully conscious of his dirt and blood stained armor. His heart thumped so hard that the young man swore it was audible, as their gazes locked and he smiled at her, hoping to ease the burden she carried upon herself. It was only a small smile, but it was more than enough, for she returned the gesture, and just that alone had been worth it, he thought.

The youngest bowman in the Bolton's armies ranks felt the heat rise to his cheeks as Sansa Stark glanced in his general direction. She smiled at him again and the young man snapped his head away, knowing that if he continued to stare at the Lady of Winterfell, that he would get lost in those big blue eyes of hers. He could feel her eyes upon him. Aleyn silently inhaled and exhaled, hoping that her thoughts about him were good. "Are they?" he wondered out loud, not realizing he'd spoken it aloud until she quirked her brow at him and looked at him, confused.

"Are they what?" Lady Stark questioned, and Ser Aleyn felt the heat creep to his cheeks and he promptly dipped his head in acknowledgement.

 _Oh, damn_ , he swore internally. _I hadn't realized I'd said it aloud_.

"Forgive me," he stammered, feeling like his tongue was no longer taking directions from his brain. "I spoke out of turn, milady." The young bowman flushed and promptly looked away. He furrowed his thick brow into a frown, and he caught a flash of what appeared to be brown rags and a dirty, sullen face peeking out from behind the bough of an old oak tree. _Bolton's pet_ , he thought bitterly, his jaw clenched. _Reek_.

Oh, the lad was harmless enough. Tortured into submission by Ramsay, the boy had lost the traces of boyhood, at least, what little Aleyn could see of the accursed wretch where he stood, watching them. Thank the gods Lady Stark did not seem to notice their little unexpected guest, for Aleyn was certain the Lady of Winterfell would have run away from him in terror. Bolton had done a number on the boy.

The cretinous little worm had kind of a hen-pecked look. His shoulders hunched together like he was trying to disappear inside himself, and he had a look upon his face that suggested to the young bowman, whose gaze flitted towards the tree behind which the man was hiding and back to Lady Sansa, that he wished he could be anywhere but here now. Even his eyes seemed to be attempting to retreat inside his head as Aleyn lifted his chin, jutting it out defiantly and meeting Reek's gaze.

He offered a suggestive little smile and the boy startled like a deer in the woods, caught in the sights of an arrow, almost toppling as he took a step backwards, tripping over a tree root in the process, but didn't fall.

The younger man brushed dirt from his tunic and let his face fall with gravity. Aleyn stepped aside while he slunk past further into the woods.

Aleyn felt his lips curl into a twisted sneer and rolled his eyes. _Yet another of Bolton's spies, eyes, and ears within Winterfell. Is nothing sacred anymore? Can he not even trust his intended to go for a walk?_

Apparently not. Sansa had remained completely oblivious all the while to the exchange, fixated on feeding the apple to the horse. And then something that the Wolf of Winterfell had said resonated with the young bowman. _The kitchens shan't miss one apple, I should think…_

"You…you went to the _kitchens_ for that apple, milady?" he breathed, feeling his dark eyes grow wide and round at that thought, as an unexpected wash of cold threatened to consume and freeze his insides.

By the gods, if Ramsay or Lord Roose had learned of her little expedition towards the corridors where the servants worked, and had spent the morning in the company of the kitchen wenches and cooks, there would be seven shades of holy hell to pay, and he might very well lose his tongue for failing to report this.

Still, he could not help but ask the one question that burned on the tip of his tongue. "Why, milady?"

Sansa knitted her brows together as the mare polished off the last of the apple she had given her, who was affectionately nudging the young woman's head, demanding she pet it. Lady Stark reached up a hand to scratch at the horse's ear. She shot the young bowman an inquisitive look.

"Why shouldn't I?" she shot right back at him. "This is my…home."

"This is unacceptable, milady," Aleyn offered immediately, stepping towards Lady Stark, and laying a gentle hand upon her shoulder. He flinched at the contact, but only because she did the minute he laid his hand near her collarbone. _She thinks I mean to hurt her_ , he thought.

Immediately, he took two steps back and raised his hand in defense. "Forgive me, I—I meant no offense," he cried out, cursing his stupidity. Seven hells, what had gotten _into_ him as of late? Aleyn prided himself on his ability to fire an arrow from a great distance away, how he never missed a single shot fired. And yet, for some reason, this strange creature in front of him had rendered him tongue-tied and at a loss for how to behave accordingly. It pained the bowman even further to see how Lady Stark was looking at him as he straightened his posture, shifting his quiver on his back, how she was looking at him with that horrible mixture of pity and…something else, something that he wasn't quite sure he could identify, and he wasn't even sure that he wanted to in the moment.

"Why are the kitchens forbidden?" Sansa questioned, her frown deepening. "I know the kitchens quite well, sir. I used to help old Hilda as a little girl. She taught me how to make lemon cakes and she…"

But her voice trailed off and Lady Stark looked away, biting her bottom lip in a slight pout, and she did not complete her sentence.

Aleyn had to fight the urge to roll his eyes at the girl's naivetes. In some ways, he supposed, though the young woman of eighteen standing before him was now very much an adult, he could see the shadow of the young girl who was still a child underneath. It was those eyes of hers.

Wide, baby-blue, innocent eyes that had him ensnared with just one look. Briefly, he wondered if he should tell Lady Sansa of their 'visitor.'

He decided against it, thinking such a revelation would only upset her.

"Hilda I'm sure would be delighted to see you again. She is still with us," announced Aleyn, and the corners of his mouth twitched at the brief look of excitement and relief in her eyes, how her shoulders sagged.

"Wonderful!" she smiled, flashing a brilliant white smile at him, and the young man felt like his heart was going to pound out of his chest.

He swallowed nervously and continued. "I should tell you you'd like to see her, but I must ask that for your own good, you not go to the kitchens. Our lord Bolton has…taken quite the shine to you, it would seem," the young bowman murmured darky, having quite forgotten proper edict in front of the Lady of Winterfell. He didn't care anymore. She needed to hear this. It might be her one and only chance at surviving her new home. The new Winterfell. She frowned; the gesture was one which did not suit the fair-skinned maiden at all. Aleyn wished to see her smile, but she knew she had little reason to do so these days.

"But what does that have to do with the kitchens, Ser…?"

The young bowman held up a hand and cut her off. "Permit me. My name is Aleyn. And I only mean that…here, you must take better care what you say, Lady Stark," he cautioned, lowering his voice on the likely probability that Bolton's damned pet was still slinking in the brush of the woods like the filthy disgusting rat he was.

Sansa weaved her fingers in between her knuckles, brushing back her red hair over her shoulders, worn loose and free, cascading in waves.

"What do you mean?" she asked, and there was no mistaking the flicker of fear that darted in those bewitching azure orbs of Sansa's.

"I only mean that, and I say this to you as a friend, milady," he breathed, and he could not stop the small smile from forming as he watched, slightly stupefied, as his words seemed to breathe new life into the young woman standing in front of him, how she held herself a little taller, a little prouder.

 _Perhaps all the Lady Sansa is looking for in this place is a friend_ , he thought, a little sadly. _Maybe…I can be that for her_. "I must admit, milady, that I do not know what this place was like for you growing up when you were younger," he said softly, and he watched, a pang in his heart giving a painful lurch as the light in her sky-blue eyes dimmed and dulled to a mere ember, the previous passion gone.

"Better," she whispered; her voice barely audible over the wind.

 _I bet it was_ , he thought darkly, biting the inside of his cheek. He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat, not willing to look at the pain in her cobalt blue eyes any longer, and yet, Aleyn could not seem to pull his gaze away from her eyes.

"Here, with the Boltons, especially your…husband-to-be," here, the bowman spat the last words as though the idea was a poison that had settled on his tongue, "You must take better care of what you say. And even the places you go within her walls," he added, gesturing back towards the towering parapets of Winterfell. "Think how it must look, for the Lady of Winterfell herself to be…traipsing about the kitchens in the presence of common folk."

"Commoners who play a vital role in helping run my family's castle," Sansa snapped, her voice sounding slightly hardened, no warmth there. "They are the ones who keep it clean, ensure we have food on our table. It would not be right of me to at least make an effort not to know them. And I'd…" Her voice trailed off again and she looked away. "I should like to pay them better. One day, perhaps. They work so hard. For _me_."

Aleyn felt like his mind was reeling. Who on earth _was_ this strange creature? This girl seemed to enjoy co-mingling with the staff, and now, here she stood, talking about wanting to increase their wages? By the gods, Ramsay did not know just how fortunate he was to have her as a bride.

At the thought of young Master Bolton, his frown deepened. Ramsay Bolton was a violent, sadistic son of a bitch, and the thought of him laying a hand on this beauty before him rendered his blood aflame.

Which made what he was about to say that much more painful.

"Milady Stark, you must take better care what you say and do within Winterfell's walls, I beg of you. In the olden days of times now long past, you might have been able to get away with your silly little outbursts and frequent visits to the kitchens to visit Hilda and the others. Oh, yes," he added, noticing Sansa's dawning look of horror. "I don't doubt the entire castle learned of the…exchange of words between you and Lord Ramsay. Regardless, you have now entered a very different world, Lady Sansa. A world where such behavior is not only looked down upon but is very much considered treason. Do you get my meaning, milady?"

"Yes," replied Sansa, not sparing Aleyn as much as a second glance. Her gaze was, however, fixated upon the heart tree, and the Children's face carved into it. Her expression was one of intrigue and curiosity.

Aleyn merely shook his head. Lord Ramsay Bolton's bride was a clever and intelligent young noblewoman, but that would not do her any good in her new situation. She had to be clever, but in a different kind of way. Unfortunately, he was beginning to think she didn't have the capacity to survive Ramsay and his…unorthodox method of living.

To his surprise, the young bowman almost jumped when she spoke to him again. "I…did not know others heard of our… _disagreement_."

Aleyn snorted before he could stop it. "I think the whole North heard what happened. Master Bolton's voice carries when he wishes it."

And then, a thought struck him. An unpleasant one, but he had to know. He felt his fingers curl into a fist over the hilt of his sheathed sword. "Has he hurt you, milady? The—last night in the corridor."

He watched as the young woman startled, not having anticipated the question. She blinked owlishly at him, and it seemed to take her forever to find her voice. "I…no. But I wouldn't put it past him to try, a-as he tried to do to me last night. The man is a boorish _fiend_ , Ser Aleyn," she sighed, defeated, tucking back a wisp of red hair behind her right ear.

Aleyn let out a sigh as he watched the young redheaded Stark girl frown and in a state of agitation begin to pace the forest floor, her footfalls creating a crunching sound as she stepped on twigs and dead brown leaves. "Is there something troubling you, milady?" he asked, concerned.

"Yes, but I…well, no. Yes, I…no, this all too fast, I think!" Sansa sighed wearily, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, and the young bowman scowled as he caught a glimpse of the yellow gold wedding ring she wore as an obligation on her left finger.

The young bowman could tell how much the thought of her upcoming to marriage to Lord Ramsay was bothering her, so he decided to take pity upon her and change the subject. "What's your story?"

"Mmm?" Lady Sansa lifted her head and regarded the young man, a look of exasperation and tiredness on her face. Judging by the dark circles developing underneath her eyes, it was evident she'd not slept very well.

"Your story, milady," he repeated patiently, offering the young woman his arm as he made to head back towards Winterfell, to the stables. It was growing even colder outside, and she did not need to catch her death from sickness from prolonged exposure to such frigid cold.

Aleyn hadn't been prepared for the strong vice grip as the girl's nails practically dug into his arm. "My story is not important," she whispered, her tone laced with anger and defeat. "I don't…" She let out a squeak and startled, as a dark shadow stepped from the shadows. "Oh…"

The young bowman immediately relinquished his hold on Lady Stark's arm and dipped into a light bow in the presence of Ramsay.

"Here you are," announced Ramsay, his thick arms folded across his chest. His dark hair was disheveled, and his cheeks flushed with color.

"Milord," Sansa squeaked, dipping into a light curtsy, bowing her head. A lock of hair had fallen on either side of her face, effectively acting as a shield from the piercing gaze of her soon-to-be lord husband.

"What are you doing out here in the cold? You could get sick." Ramsay scowled, his lips pursing into a thin, rigid line.

"I…needed some fresh air, a—and I thought I'd take a walk." Sansa's voice trembled slightly, though she did not doubt her convictions.

There was, however, no mistaking the look of anger in his eyes. At the deadness, the stillness that lingered in Lord Bolton's cobalt eyes.

 _These two have similar eyes. Both sad_ , young Aleyn thought wildly. "Milord Bolton," he mumbled, staring at the man's black boots. "I—I was merely—"

But Sansa interrupted him, stepping in front of the bowman, keeping her gaze cast downward, though Aleyn was stunned when the noblewoman reached out a gentle hand and gave him a light but firm squeeze on his shoulder, though not once did she glance back at him.

"This was my idea, Lord Bolton," she mumbled, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks. "I wished to take a walk outside. I met Ser Aleyn and his horse, Lya," she added, casting a glance backwards to regard the mare, and the corners of his mouth twitched as the horse nudged her shoulder, demanding more attention and affections. "Your bowman kept me company. Please punish me if you must for…wandering off, but do not punish Ser Aleyn. He was merely following my orders, milord…"

Words left Ser Aleyn. He felt his lips part slightly in shock, and lifted his chin upwards to gaze at Ramsay, whose bright blue eyes were fixated upon Aleyn in a fiery burning animosity, and his heart fell utterly silent. The silence between the three of them was absolutely deadly. Though if the young bowman was not mistaken about such things, and given how accurate he was with a bow and arrow, he usually wasn't, there was no mistaking how the Lord Ramsay's blue eyes remained captivated upon Lady Sansa, or more importantly, at her eyes. Like she had ensnared him.

Aleyn drew in a sharp breath of cold air that pained his lungs, swearing he could have seen Ramsay Bolton's eyes almost…soften at the exchange.

Sansa's cheeks were pink and flushed with color from the cold and embarrassment. It seemed to take Lord Ramsay ages to find his voice.

"I thank you for keeping Lady Stark company. She needs some time to adjust to her new…living situations and these…strange surroundings," answered Ramsay, holding up a gloved hand, cutting off Aleyn's response. He fixed the young bowman with an icy, stony glower.

Ramsay's eyes flashed with indignance and anger, much like lightning on a pitch black night. The man's ire was directed towards Aleyn.

And it was all _his_ fault. The young bowman swallowed nervously, keeping his head bowed. "Come, milady," Ramsay offered, holding out his gloved hand to help his bride up onto the saddle of his horse. He shot a withering gaze Aleyn's way, and the young bowman gulped nervously.

A burning animosity was developing in Lord Ramsay Bolton's blue eyes, and Aleyn could tell that he was the root cause of the problem here.

Aleyn let out a soft, inaudible gasp as he watched as Ramsay shifted in the saddle and turned to cup Sansa's cheek in his palm, the pad of his forefinger and his thumb tenderly caressing his bride's cheek.

"We wouldn't want you catching your death tonight, my love," he crooned throatily, and just the feigned tenderness, or at least it seemed it was feigned to Ser Aleyn, was enough to send a chill of fear down his spine. "Tonight we dine with our banner men and knights and lords, wherein I have a wedding gift for you, my dear Sansa, and not a moment too soon, I should think," he said, and offered a grin that looked more wolfish and predatory than it did actually genuine, though Aleyn could never quite recall a time when Lord Roose's son had actually smiled.

She dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Yes, milord."

Ramsay nodded his agreement, though he did not remove his fingers from the delicate skin of her cheek. "Others, it would seem," he added, shooting another look of daggers towards Aleyn's way, "think that you are free to be claimed for themselves. But that is not the case, is it?"

Sansa Stark shook her head mutely, and opened her mouth to say something, but was not given a chance to speak her mind, Ramsay's lips were pressed against hers. Not innocently, like a tease, but hot, fiery, demanding. Aleyn looked away, though not before noticing how Sansa's body had stiffened and recoiled at such unexpected, intimate contact.

He had very nearly knocked the wind from her lungs and probably would have fallen right off Ramsay's horse's saddle were it not for his strong hands gripping onto her waist, curling into protective fists, coming up to grip painfully tight on the Stark girl's waist. Sansa broke it off first, and gasped for air, her eyes half-lidded, dazed and utterly confused.

Ramsay's smirk that he shot Aleyn as he smiled briefly at Sansa before turning back towards his youngest bowman told the young man everything he needed to know. He watched as Ramsay's smile faltered.

The outrage, the entitlement and jurisdiction the young Bolton lord was giving was clear to Ser Aleyn. The look was a warning to him.

To stay away from Sansa, or else…


	11. Sansa

**Sansa**

Sansa did not quite know what to expect when Ramsay had found her in the castle grounds of Winterfell talking with Ser Aleyn, but for him to kiss her was not at all what she had expected, given the nature of how their little encounter in the corridor near the library had ended yesterday eve. She had hoped that when a man kissed her, particularly a handsome one like Ramsay would, she would have expected a burning tingling on her lips, for her future lord to fill up with an incredible heat, invigorating her from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair, but in the end…

She shuddered, clutching herself as she collapsed at the side of her bed, in the end, she could only describe it as rather sloppy and wet, careless. Sansa had no desire to come back for another kiss than to kiss the horse Lya. His tongue had been something like a muscular eel worming its way into her mouth and when she had pulled apart, she'd had to resist the urge to wipe his thick saliva from around her lips. It had been infuriating.

The swirls of emotions she had seen in Ramsay's eyes as he had looked at her earlier had made her gasp. Lust and desire, but before she could ponder it further, he had yanked her towards him in the horse's saddle and had covered her mouth with his in his hungry, almost desperate kiss.

_Perhaps that was why it had been so…unfavorable_ , she wondered. His warm lips had been demanding, firm, and…surprisingly gentle despite the forcefulness of the gesture. She had drawn away quickly following the unexpected kiss, and Sansa could hardly swallow as she felt her throat close up. A horrible heat engulfed her body as her mind swirled, ruminating over the kiss Ramsay had given her. Sansa grimaced, pulling a face. _Why did I let him use me like that?_

_She_ cursed herself angrily. She shivered with anger as well as fear, and was just about to sneak down to the kitchens to see if she could meet with Hilda, disregarding Ser Aleyn's warnings to mind herself in the company of the Boltons when a knock came upon her door to her chambers.

Startled, Sansa looked up from staring at the cold stone floor of her bedroom to find herself face-to-face with an old man and an aging woman, the lady Hilda herself. Her face came from the shadows, her features suspended between grief and joy, stealing away Sansa's breath and the heat from her skin.

Suddenly, her defenses and her hackles, which had raised, as she had been anticipating it to be Ramsay, was reduced to nothing but parchment, paper that was being soaked by the rapid falling briny teardrops that threatened to escape from the corners of Sansa's eyes. Seconds passed, Sansa's brain taking in the woman's features, struggling to comprehend that Hilda was not just another figment of her sometimes overactive imagination, that she was _real_ , that her friend was really _here_.

Her brain could not seem to formulate a cohesive thought, at least no one based in any language, and if she did not touch Hilda soon, she thought she would very well tear herself apart in her madness.

How the ground between the two women was erased, she would never quite recall, but on moment they were apart, and the next, morphed into a single being as Sansa felt her feet move of their own volition, closing off the gap of space between herself and her Hilda.

The woman could not have been older than fifty and two, and yet, Sansa had never been gladder to see a familiar face than right now. Sansa's face brightened immediately, and she broke into a relieved smile, and she felt quite like she might break down and weep at seeing a familiar face, one who would be kind to her in this place.

"Hilda!" she breathed, feeling the tears well in her eyes, and she blinked back her tears, swallowing hard. The woman who worked in the kitchens had a thick tuft of gray hair that was still thick and lustrous, currently pulled into a loose bun, though a few strands had escaped to frame her heart-shaped face. "It's so wonderful to see you, I thought perhaps…that I would not see you again, that something happened to you since last I saw you. You are still here, Hilda," she breathed, snuggling into Hilda's embrace. Sansa could feel her body begin to tremble at the gentle touch of her mother's friend, crying for the missed time with Hilda she would never get back, crying to release the tension of these long, tortuous years.

With her fingers on Hilda's cheeks, Sansa dared to turn the aging woman's head so that the cook could see there was no judgment in her eyes, only love. Hilda's face buckled and her tears rolled unchecked, washing a path to her chin. In moments, Sansa and Hilda held each other in an embrace Sansa never wished to end, one that told her everything would be all right. She had already thought she'd lost Hilda once.

Never again. Not if Sansa had her way regarding this.

The cook and maid snickered. "Well, Lady Stark, where else would I rather be, dear?" In that moment, the arms squeezed a fraction tighter and Sansa breathed more slowly, her body melting into her mother's old family friend as every muscle lost its tension to the frigid winter air.

This was…almost not real, and Sansa had never felt more relieved.

Hilda wrapped Sansa in a warm swaddle of her bosom and arms. Sansa smiled and closed her eyes, not wanting to leave the woman's embrace. With Lady Catelyn gone, Hilda was the closet thing left she had to a mother now. It felt as if when she was in the servant's arms, all her pains went away—mental and physical, mostly the depressing pain. If only she could stay in the lady Hilda's arms forever, safe from Ramsay and his father, safe from the seven kingdoms' most harmful people. She could only hope, but even she knew that all good things would come to an end.

"T'is good to have you back, milady. You know where you may find me should you ever need me for anything, my dear. The North remembers, Lady Stark," Hilda whispered into the shell of her ear, relinquishing her hold upon Sansa, and holding the younger woman at arm's length, clucking her tongue in disappointment. "By the gods, child, you're looking entirely too thin and peaky. You need feeding up." The cook broke into a wide smile, though it did not reach her green eyes.

Hilda's eyes were the hue of the new spring growth, bright and soft all at once. There were flecks of strength, of the kind of green that only came as the summer season advanced. And they were never more beautiful than when Hilda smiled, which thank the gods, was often, nor when she became the wise woman that Lady Sansa depended upon, decorated with laughter lines.

Yet the soul and the eyes are ageless, and to Sansa, so was Hilda.

A cough from behind Hilda startled the pair of women out of their moment, and Sansa allowed a tiny giggle to escape her lips as Maester Wolkan coughed, clutching at his sides, wheezing in an effort to catch his breath from having climbed all those stairs to reach Sansa's chambers.

Hilda rolled her eyes and offered Sansa a coy little wink before turning around to regard Lord Roose and Ramsay's maester. "Are you sure you're quite all right, Wolkan? Do you need to stop a minute?"

The comment earned the woman a dark, withering look from the old man as he panted. Sansa chose to focus on the old maester, since his appearance rather fascinated the She-Wolf of Winterfell greatly. The old man had a fringe of grey-white hair around his slightly balding, mottled scalp, and a heavy white beard. He had a wizened face and a back slightly hunched from years of hard work. Wolkan had the resigned look of one who knew that at his age, life has stopped giving and only takes away.

For him, life had taken his last straw of patience. He looked as though a good puff of wind could blow him down. Wolkan had a slight hand tremor and constant wagging and bobbling of his head. The old man's wrinkles seemed to carve a map of life of his servitude to the Bolton family on his still agile facial features, despite the maester's age.

Thick white eyebrows framed his eyes, and his white beard had needed trimming perhaps two days ago. When he spoke, his voice was warbled and firm, but quite firm as he directed his statement towards Lady Sansa and presented a neatly folded garment he held in his hands.

"Master Ramsay demands your presence at dinner, Lady Stark," Maester Wolkan heaved, trying to catch his breath, one hand on his heart and another clasped tightly around his ribcage as he gasped madly for air.

Sansa repressed the urge to roll her eyes. "Tell Lord Bolton I should have nothing more to do with him, Maester Wolkan," she explained through gritted teeth, clenching, and unclenching his fists, not quite sure what to do with her hands. "Ramsay Bolton had the audacity to dare try to assault me in the corridor the other eve, and now he expects of his bride to dine with him as though he thinks that I will have forgiven what happened between the two of us? I think not. You may go back to your lord and tell him that I will think about joining him, no more, and no less." The redheaded noble woman huffed in frustration, crossing her legs and one her feet had begun to tap restlessly as she collapsed back on her mattress, and tossed her red hair over her shoulders, folding her arms across her chest, biting her lip in a bottom pout. "The audacity of him…"

Hilda burst out laughing and playfully jabbed Wolkan in the ribs, perhaps harder than she ought to have, for the jab sent the maester stumbling backwards and he would have fallen over a chair had Hilda not seen he was about to fall and kicked the chair beneath his legs, bidding him sit. "Sit, Maester, before you should keel over from a complaint of the heart," she murmured, rolling her eyes. "Did I not tell you Lady Sansa has her mother's spirit, Wolkan? When I look at her, I see Lady Catelyn in her eyes and in her face," she grinned, complimenting Sansa.

Maester Wolkan spluttered, his face turning an embarrassing shade of red as he weaved his fingers in between his knuckles. "Milady, you must go. The master _commands_ it. It is _not_ an option, Lady Stark. You will go. I think, in time, my dear, you will come around to Lord Ramsay. He is…not a bad man, once you take the time to get to know our lord."

Sansa knitted her brows together in a heavy frown and turned her head away sharply, looking towards her family friend Hilda for confirmation, who, much to her disgust and horror, was regarding Sansa in a rather sympathetic light and smiling sadly, the smile not reaching her eyes.

"Come, child," her matronly and kind voice soothed, flowing through the tense bedchambers like a soft breeze. "You are home, where you belong, Lady Sansa. It is…what your parents would have wanted, I should like to think. You must give your future lord husband a chance. If you wish to have any hope of surviving here, then you will have to encounter the master eventually. You are to marry him tomorrow, Lady Stark, there is no getting around that fact, milady. You are a Stark, Lady Sansa, and we, that is to say, Maester Wolkan and myself," Hilda added, gesturing towards Wolkan, who was still seated in the chair, looking thoroughly winded but he quickly nodded his agreement, "will do everything in our power to ensure that you are comfortable here, dear."

Sansa felt her blue eyes widen incredulously at Hilda's kind words of reassurance and support. She found herself wanting to pull away the mask of aging of Hilda's face to see the person inside, the girl that she used to be all those years ago. Then, Sansa thought wondrously as the cook and maid silently handed her a steaming mug of tea, that she did not have to, for if she listened to her mother's friend's words and paid attention to Hilda's smile, to her eyes, the young girl was still in Hilda's very soul.

"Here, dear," exclaimed Hilda, handing Sansa a steaming mug of herbal tea. "I've put a tonic in it to help calm the nerves. Should help."

Lady Sansa sighed, accepting the mug gratefully. As she took a sip, the soothing liquid sent incredible warmth down her throat and into the pits of her stomach, and just for that brief moment, she felt better.

"Hilda, Maester Wolkan," she began hesitantly, biting her lip in trepidation as she clutched onto the tea mug with both hands, averting both their gazes. "Might I ask a question in regard to my betrothed?"

"Of course, dear," replied Hilda warmly. "Ask away, child."

"How did he…" Sansa hesitated, unsure of how to exactly phrase the question that was on her mind. "Why is he…the way that he is?"

Hilda suddenly looked uncomfortable as she picked at a loose thread upon her simple brown dress, little more than rags. Sansa frowned. If she would have it her way, she would see that everyone who worked in Winterfell's estate received better uniforms and a livable wage with which they could support their families. "Oh, never you mind your pretty little head about Lord Bolton, my dear. I do not know the entirety of his story, but what little I do know, I know that a majority of it involves Lord—"

"That's enough!" bellowed Maester Wolkan, his red face resembling a red tomato by this point. He bolted from his chair so fast, he practically overturned the thing in an effort to right himself. "Lady Stark does not need to hear the gruesome details right before she sups with Lord Bolton. That kind of language is unsuitable for a woman of her caliber, Hilda!"

Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown, noticing how their demeanors had immediately changed at the mention of Ramsay, how their kind smiles towards Sansa instantly evaporated and became null.

Their shift in attitude, skittish, nervous, almost flighty behaviors.

Was he really so despicable as everyone said? How the rumors of how he would violently and bloodily flay a man until there was nothing left but bones, how his victims would wish for their death long before Ramsay so much as laid a finger on them, how his violence was in his words. Oh, she had seen a little bit of that within the bastard, already.

But…surely, there had to be at least an ounce of goodness in him, she thought she could ponder on this hope until her brain ached and she was blue in the face and she would never quite know the truth about him. Hilda's cheeks flushed high and pink with color. "Never you mind about Lord Bolton's past, my dear. It is nothing you need to trouble yourself over, child. Just between the three of us in this room, as far as myself and Wolkan are concerned, Master Ramsay forged his own path long ago and it will be up to the master to set things right for himself."

At the mention of Ramsay, Maester Wolkan impatiently cleared his throat irritably. "Speaking of Lord Ramsay, milady, you will be late for the gathering in the mess hall if we keep up this conversation. You—"

"Oh, I won't be dining with that man," snapped Sansa harshly, her tone cold as she folded her arms across her chest as she glowered at Lord Bolton's maester. "My future husband is nothing but a monster, to keep me trapped in this room like I am no more than some exotic animal, like I am nothing more than a prisoner. He wishes of me only one thing…"

Maester Wolkan's already pale face was rendered ashen and clammy at her passionate declaration of hatred and disdain for her future husband.

"Milady Stark, I advise you to caution yourself," he began solemnly, his eyes still looking rather panicked, but he willed his tone to remain collected and stoic, his facial expression impassive, perfected to a look of neutral indifference, though there was no mistaking the flicker of fear that darted through his orbs. "Perhaps once, when Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn were still alive, you might have been able to get away with such outspoken thoughts, but under the Bolton's rule, things are different."

"So, I have noticed," commented Sansa dryly, exchanging a dark look with Hilda, who gave a curt shrug of her shoulders but offered no comment. "I hardly recognize this place anymore," she sighed wearily.

"We advise you to tread with caution around Lord Ramsay and Lord Roose, milady, if you wish for your life here to be amenable. The aristocracy, as I'm sure you found out for yourself," he added sardonically, "do not take kindly to individuals such as yourself who openly share their opinions and frequently voice their concerns. Tread lightly, child."

Sansa pursed her lips into a thin, rigid line, glowering at Winterfell's maester. She was not at all fooled. She knew all too well what he was.

What Ramsay was. She was beginning to question her own desires and motives for having agreed to this union in the first place. "Meaning that because I am a woman, around my husband, that I should keep my mouth shut and legs open, is that it, Maester Wolkan? Proper edict…"

She sniffed, scrunching her nose in disgust, and turned away. Hilda burst into a wicked bout of laughter, which reverberated off the walls.

"Oh, I rather like you, child. Did I not tell you, Maester Wolkan? Lady Stark is a Wolf and bites just as one. She is much different than the last girl our master tried, is she not? You've a fiery spirit, my child."

"Perhaps if Lord Ramsay would learn to show his bride that he can be a _gentleman_ and prove to me that he has _manners,_ of which I am doubtful," she spat disgustedly, "Then perhaps I will reconsider my original answer of joining the banquet for dinner. Though he might think me to be a prisoner here within my own home's walls, I shan't tolerate abuse at his hand, and that goes for his rudeness as well," snarled Sansa, baring her canines angrily.

Hilda chuckled lightly as she ran a brush through Sansa's ginger locks gingerly. "Oh yes," she laughed, the sound of her inner child coming out briefly. "I think you are going to do quite well for yourself here, my dear. Quite well indeed. Perhaps you can teach our master a thing or two about grace and etiquette. He has…" Hilda hesitated, wondering how much of Ramsay Bolton's personality she could divulge, as it was not her place to comment on such matters. "He has not had it easy here, given the last few years of life under his father's shadows. I think that if you were to…shall we say, try to befriend him, then perhaps there is a little shred of hope for him in that his ways could perhaps be mended.

Words left Sansa as she allowed Hilda's words to sink in as her brain struggled to process the information she had just learned. She felt her eyes grow wide and round as a dinner plate. "No, no, no! Absolutely not!" she bellowed, bolting up from her spot on the edge of the bed and feeling her temper rise to dangerous levels. "Hilda, forgive my abrasiveness, but there is no hope for Ramsay to learn to love. There is no love in his heart, only cruelty and malice, he craves naught but power. He does not know what it is to care for someone. To think that there is an inkling of hope for him to find love, with _me_ no less is positively, absolutely absurd! NO!"

Hilda smiled sadly, as she turned to leave. She paused, a wrinkled hand on the door frame to steady herself as she turned back to look at the beautiful auburn-haired woman silently fuming in her anger at her situation. Hilda could not blame her for this.

The poor girl had lost her freedom in the span of but one day. It was no wonder her emotions were currently in some kind of mental free-fall. However, there was always hope. "Don't underestimate the master, child. Perhaps it is a good thing you are here. You can show our young lord Bolton what it means to be kind, to respect someone. He needs a good role model in his life. I think that person can be you, but only if you let yourself. Since you are going to be staying with us indefinitely, I think you can make the most of your time here by working with the master to improve his ways."

With that, she said nothing more, leaving Sansa alone in her room to ponder her words. The silence gnawed at her insides. Silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. The silence was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything. If only she had a book, she could have happily curled up in the armchair in the corner of her room and escaped for a bit.

The silence was poisonous in its nothingness, cruelly underscoring how vapid her precious conversations with the heads of household had been. The silence in Lady Sansa's chambers was eerily unnatural, like a dawn devoid of birdsong. It clung to her like a poisonous cloud that could, at any moment, choke the life from her, seeping into her every pore, like a poison slowly paralyzing her from either speech or movement. Sansa sighed, thinking of how Ramsay had kissed her again.

Oh, she knew there would be hell to pay for refusing to show at the dinner. Sansa let out another heavy sigh, thinking that it would most assuredly be in her best interest if she were to show up to the mess hall.

She could not fight the coming dawn of the morrow any more than she could the tides of the sea. Sansa could not stop what was coming any more than she could call upon the clouds to clear the gray skies. Perhaps it was dread at the idea of facing an evening in Lord Bolton's company, but not quite. What was coming for Sansa Stark was her destiny, what her life had been building towards, and though undesirable her situation was, she knew that she would never wish it away. Change was coming. It was. It had to. Change or die. Wasn't that the brave new world?

Sansa startled as she heard an all-too familiar guttural roar from down the hallway. Ramsay's voice. She glanced over at the mirror that hung above the basin on the other side of her room where she washed up in the mirrors. Her beautiful face was cast as dead-pan as she could manage, yet she failed. No doubt Maester Wolkan had given Ramsay her message.

There, at the corner of her would-be somber lips was a crease of amusement. If Ramsay wanted to play his games, then so would she.

She knew how she was going to play the game. And how to win.


	12. Reek

**Reek**

All the reasons _not_ to do this for Master came flooding in, as if his body chemistry had sent them a blanket invitation. Poor Reek could feel the soft panic that could grow or fade depending on what he chose to do next. It would fade if he backed away, but then Master would be _furious_ , and the beating he would receive for refusing to do this would be worse. Just stepping in the doorway was enough to make his breathing rapid and shallow.

He could feel his pulse pounding his temples, throbbing against his sides. Silence, despite the chattering of the various lords as they assembled in the mess hall, lingered in the air. Reek shivered in the claustrophobic corner, trying to shrink into the shadows as much as possible, hiding behind a pillar, hoping that if she showed, she'd not see him. For he did not think that he could stand it, to look into her eyes.

Tersely, Reek's eyes flickered towards the mess hall that just minutes ago had been a hum of excitement and exhilaration as servants bustled in through the open double doors, carrying platters of hot food that caused poor Reek's mouth to water just from the good smells that wafted his way. His nails were already bitten down to the quick in anticipation. He nibbled at their frayed form edges (the fingers at least that hadn't already been cut off) like a famished mouse.

The most Master had ever let him have was a few rinds of slightly aged and moldy cheese and stale bread.

"I hope to the gods this little show of my son's is worth it. We've an entire army planning to go against Stannis Baratheon and his men and that godforsaken hellish red woman he's rumored to be in league with, and my half-witted son wants to throw a lavish feast such as this. This had better be worth the boy's efforts, or I should cut off one of his fingers myself. Flay one of his own hounds," came Lord Roose's voice. Lord Bolton sounded thoroughly disgruntled as he complained to his fat wife, Walda. Reek frowned, straining to hear better.

"He loves her, I think it's rather charming. Why, just earlier, I heard him commanding one of the maids that attends to Lady Sansa the exact gown he wished her to wear tonight. Said it would highlight the red in her hair and her blue eyes," gushed Fat Walda in a sickly honeyed voice that made Reek's stomach churn. Much of Master's disdain for his father's new wife had also rubbed off on Reek, and now Reek hated her too. For it was better and easier to stay on Master's good side, what little of it there was.

"He's showing the girl off, my dear. That's all this is. He's parading her about, showing off how important he thinks he is now that he's about to marry. I am afraid it shall take more than a pretty little wife to impress the lords of the north." Lord Roose did not sound entertained as he lifted his goblet to his lips and drank his red wine heavily. He sounded thoroughly bored. The air in the mess hall felt so brittle, Reek thought it might snap, and if it didn't, then poor Reek just might.

For a moment, no one spoke. Reek drew in a sharp breath that pained his lungs as Ramsay brushed past Reek without so much as sparing the younger man a second glance, for which Reek was extremely grateful, being how on edge he was already, he didn't need further torment. Ramsay was looking especially handsome and put together in a simple black jerkin with a belt, black pants, and a black belt and boots.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice clipped and hard, his hands on his hips. If you were to ask Reek in private, he would be the first to admit that in the moment, Ramsay Bolton looked like a sullen little boy. _Wanting to know where Lady Stark is_ , Reek thought wildly, scurrying to hide behind the pillar, praying to the gods above that no one would call upon him, though Ramsay had ordered his presence at the banquet tonight, a lavish affair, which, it should be noted, caused Lord Roose to balk at such an exquisite event, though after much soothing from his lady wife's part, he seemed to relax and seated himself and Walda at the head of the table, Ramsay taking the seat across from his lord father. Only one chair remaining was unoccupied, that of Lady Sansa's.

"Where is Lady Sansa?" repeated Ramsay, and Reek dared to poke his head around the corner of the pillar and gulped nervously at the burning animosity in the young lord's burning blue eyes, like that of wildfire. "I thought I made it quite plain that tonight was not an option," he growled through clenched teeth.

"She will be here, milord," murmured Fat Walda, offering her stepson a jovial smile which Ramsay sneered at, folding his arms across his chest. "Perhaps she was delayed or is suffering from a bought of nerves. Just give her a moment before sending someone." Ramsay mumbled something inaudible under his breath in response to Lady Walda's otherwise soothing tone, and Reek drew in another bated breath and held it, wishing that he could disappear.

A muscle twitched involuntarily at the corner of his right eye; Reek's mouth forming a rigid grimace. With his arms folded tightly across his slender chest, he tapped his foot furiously and all the while stared out into the mess hall, remaining shrouded in shadow behind the precious pillar that was large and wide enough to conceal Reek's form. Cold sweat glistened on his furrowed brow at the thought of being forced to meet Lady Sansa's gaze.

With his hands clasped tightly in front of his stomach, poor Reek the Freak constantly fiddled with his knuckles, weaving his fingers in and out of each other. A lord seated at the other side of the table spoke up, startling Reek out of his inner musings.

"It would appear your bride is not coming, milord Bolton. It would seem then that the rumors of that little incident in the hallway have proven true. The Stark girl has bewitched you, after all," murmured an ancient lord, one that Reek did not recognize, the beginnings of a triumphant smirk forming upon his thin lips.

"She will be here," chided Roose Bolton, his tone clipped and hard as he was rapidly losing his patience. "Do you doubt Lady Stark's honor, Lord Vermeer? I should hope not, for to doubt Sansa Stark is to doubt my son, and if you doubt Ramsay, you doubt _me_ , my old friend."

Reek swallowed nervously at the growing look of rage in Lord Ramsay's eyes. He gulped as Master's gaze diverted and he caught Reek staring at him. Reek averted his gaze, though not before catching the animosity in Master's look. Hatred had brought Reek to Master, and Master had almost killed Reek. Hatred flowed in Reek's veins for his Master, but he knew better than most the futile attempt to escape.

The hatred he felt for Master told Reek the Freak that any unborn children Ramsay would be lucky to sire—or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it—should be killed the minute they left the womb and that any offspring Ramsay should produce with Lady Stark were no more than vermin. The hate Reek felt for Master climbed under his skin and pumped the fear into his veins, switching off any part of his damaged, broken mind that had the good sense to protest what Reek was doing.

He fixed the questioning lord with an icy stare that would have had turned the man to stone had Lord Roose the ability to do so. The lord, who looked like he had been about to open his mouth to speak further, promptly closed his mouth and fell silent, shaking his head no quietly.

"I thought not," sneered Lord Roose, and he and his son both promptly turned their heads at the sound of the wide oak double doors clambered open, and there in all her gentle grace and beauty stood _her_.

Sansa Stark stood in the entryway to the mess hall, her eyes cast downward. The Lady of Winterfell was dressed in an elaborate red and gold floor length gown with a slight train in the back, delicate gold brocade embroidering at the dress's scoop neckline and the bodice, gold embroidery on the overly long flared tow sleeves wide with turnbacks.

Her soft, ivory shoulders were slightly exposed, her lips carefully tinted a pale pink and her pale skin was flawless. Reek's aesthetic senses came alive, and the man formerly known as Theon was struck by Lady Stark's beauty. This wasn't like when she was a little girl, not at all.

It looked as if though Sansa had been painted in the most subtle and beautiful of colors. The pallet the gods had used to create Sansa Stark literally made poor Reek the Freak shed a tear, not wanting to do this.

No one but Lord Ramsay and Reek knew of Ramsay's intentions tonight, how Reek the Freak was to be presented to Sansa as a gift.

At that thought, he felt his stomach give a painful lurch and he could taste the bile that was coating the back of his throat. He swallowed it.

Reek turned his head sharply away and clenched his eyes shut, almost ashamed to look upon Sansa's beauty. No longer a little girl was she, but a grown young woman full of potential and promise that was to be quashed the moment she married Ramsay Bolton on the morrow.

A delicate ruby necklace pendant adorned her pale neck, and Reek, for just the briefest of moments, realized what Lady Sansa had done.

_Lion colors_ , he thought wildly. _She dressed herself in Lannister colors for the banquet feast in her honor tonight. B—but why? Master won't like that, oh, not at all. What will he do to Sansa and to Reek?_

Poor Reek felt like his mind was racing a mile a minute, and he barely felt the pain in the pads of his fingers, not realizing he was scraping his fingernails down the side of the column in anguish, not aware that his fingers had started to bleed. He could only watch in horror as Ramsay's face stiffened as at first, he took in his bride's appearance, seemingly lost in those blue eyes of hers, and Lord Bolton's gaze drifted towards her hair. How Sansa Stark's fiery auburn red hair hung loose, though a delicate waterfall braid had been intricately woven into the back, secured by an adorned ruby clip. Nowhere on her person did she proudly display the Bolton colors. Reek swallowed hard down the lump in his throat.

Though as Ramsay's gaze lingered upon his bride, the briefest flickers of anger flickering through his blue orbs at her open act of defiance by choosing to wear Lannister colors to her pre-wedding feast, a spark seemed to ignite in his blue eyes and he smiled, his arm outstretched as he waited for Lady Sansa to be seated by his side.

"My lords and ladies of the north, my…good friends, I have called you here tonight because tonight is a night of celebration and good spirits," he bellowed, rising from his chair. "The gods are good to me, for they have seen fit to bless me with a bride. Might I present Sansa Stark of Winterfell. It is by the god's good graces and our marriage which will unite the forces of the North. We are all a family, we Northerners. Our blood ties go back a thousand years, so I'd like to drink to our wedding. May our happiness spread from Moat Cailin to the last harbor."

A low murmuring of cheers spread throughout the mess hall.

"To your wedding," the crowd echoed in unison as one and lifted up their goblets and cups as one. Lady Sansa blushed, continuing to keep her gaze averted downward as she slowly made her way towards the table to sit next to Ramsay, who was, Reek noticed, looking very confident.

Myranda was standing in the far corner of the mess hall, shooting the Stark girl venomous glowers, and her aura suggested one of crimson red as she was no doubt thinking of various ways to murder Sansa Stark.

Reek furrowed his brow into a frown and bit his bottom lip as the feast commenced. Laid on the long oak table was an amount of food that on any other day would be expected to last several more. At the sight of the luscious delicacies, Reek's mouth watered. There were pheasants and goose, a bowl of roasted root vegetables, sauces with garden herbs, and best of all, there were fresh tomatoes. A handsome fish dish had followed that, wherein the servants bustling in between the various doors of the mess hall carried silver platters and set in front of the lords and ladies fleshy pink strips of trout, garnished with dashings of green herbs that neither Ramsay nor Sansa seemed to know, but liked the taste of.

The fish course was supplemented by a side plate of what appeared to be oysters, or maybe mussels from the sea. Their black shells lay open, the beige insides spilling out—sickening and yet strangely enticing.

Reek had never eaten them before, but he'd heard others complain of them before, how they felt horrible on your tongue, slippery and nasty, but they were rumored to taste pleasantly of the ocean without the overwhelming aroma of fish. After the seafood delicacies had been cleared away, the servants had returned from the kitchens with the main course.

A full spit roasted pig, its skin a sizzling, mouth-watering golden brown, jaws prized around a forest green apple. The two servants had harmonized their heavy breathing with the screeching wheels of the car as they'd pushed the big to be sat in front of Lord Roose. Cuts of the pork had been served with a refreshing apple sauce, easing the perfectly cooked meat down. It had been accompanied by potatoes that were diced up in a bowl with carrots, mushrooms, topped off with a healthy dash of pepper that stung the throat in the most pleasurable way. Reek's mouth watered.

Then after the pork had come the desserts, the servants placing a slice of a cherry torte on the table in front of the Boltons and their guests.

The pastry had been light, both in texture and color, with a thick dark brown crust, all of which contrasted with the beautiful cherry red sauce that poured out of it. Old Hilda had really outdone herself tonight.

The torte was topped by a thin layer of icing sugar as white as pure snow, but sharp as salt. Just as the dessert bowls were being cleared away, Reek felt the tension in his shoulders momentarily leave his body.

Maybe…maybe Master had forgotten about poor Reek and—

"More wine, please," came Ramsay's unmistakable, curt, commanding tone. Reek inwardly flinched, swallowing, feeling his Adams apple throb against his throat. Suddenly, it felt very warm in this bloody hall, and he wished that a hole beneath his boots would open up and swallow him whole and not let him re-emerge until Ramsay was dead. Reek cringed, turning his head sharply away and keeping his gaze downcast as he shuffled forward, the flagon of Dornish wine in hand.

He heard Sansa Stark's sharp intake of breath and he could not help but lift his gaze to look. Reek had never seen Lady Stark look this way, her blue eyes had a deadness, a horrible, empty stillness, like a shadow.

The girl who laughed often, the one who could be almost everyone's friend had developed a cold, bitter hardness. It was as if Reek could read everything Sansa Stark blamed Theon Greyjoy for in one extended glare and forgiveness for poor Reek was no longer an option.

Perhaps if he'd saved her, got to her faster, things would have been different between them, if only he could save her brothers, but…no.

_No friends for Reek,_ he thought, clenching his teeth in anguish as he poured more wine into Ramsay and Sansa's goblets, averting their gazes.

"Does it feel strange to be reunited after all this time? Fitting place for it, wouldn't you say, my love?" Ramsay gushed, putting his hand over top of hers and giving it a firm squeeze. Reek noted how Sansa flinched at the harshness of the gesture but did not pull her hand away, and false sympathy dripped from his voice like poisoned honey. Reek swallowed hard past the lump in his throat and moved to stand away from Sansa Stark. "I like to imagine that the last time you spoke was in this very room, milady. Are you still angry with him for what he did, milady?"

Sansa had seemed to have lost the power of speech, for her lips parted slightly in shock and what little color was left in her cheeks fled.

"Don't worry," Lord Bolton crooned, his grip upon his bride's hand tightening even further. "The North remembers, Sansa. I punished him for it," he added, raising his goblet to his lips and drinking heavily, studying Reek brooding in the corner of the mess hall, trying to ignore the uncomfortable silence and the hushed whispers among the other guests, who were conversing among themselves in disgusted tones. "He's not Iron Born anymore. Not Theon Greyjoy, anymore. He's a new man!" he cried, the grin on his lips widening and stretching even further, a gesture that gave Reek the chills. "A new person, milady."

Reek turned his back, grinding his teeth and bowing his head in submission, wishing that the gods would just kill him now and end his torment. _To die would be a mercy…anything but_ this, he thought.

"Aren't you, Reek?" Ramsay called out, propping his elbows up on the table and resting his chin in his hands, much like a girl would do whenever she was engaged in a particularly juicy bit of gossip. "Hmm?"

"Y—yes, Master," Reek whispered, turning back around.

"That's his new name, milady. Reek. It suits him better, I think."

Sansa pursed her lips into a thin line and violently withdrew her hand from Ramsay's grasp, knitting her brows together in a deep frown.

She winced, gingerly rubbing her fingers where Ramsay had grabbed her roughly. Sansa's hand would have markings on it for a few days, at best. "Why are you doing this to him?" she demanded, her voice terse.

Ramsay flashed his bride a charming white smile, looking more and more amused the longer this little spectacle dragged on. "Because Reek has something to say to you, Lady Sansa. Don't you, my dear Reek?"

"Y—yes, M-Master, I do," Reek whispered, his voice hoarse, eyes still downcast at the floor. He glanced towards Fat Walda and Lord Roose, who, if he wasn't mistaken, at least gleaned sympathetic glances, though given how far this encounter had progressed, there was no point in stopping it any further. It was too far gone already as it happened.

Reek swallowed as Ramsay wagged a finger at him, biding him step forward. He clenched and rooted his jaw and stepped forward, his resolve faltering with every step as he refused to avert his gaze from Lord Bolton.

"An apology?" encouraged Ramsay, raising his voice an octave, sounding as though he were conversing with a twelve-year-old boy instead of a fully grown man. When Reek still did not respond, Ramsay sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Apologize to Lady Sansa for what you did," he growled lowly. "Apologize to my future wife for murdering her two brothers, Reek."

Reek tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech. Finally, he found his voice. "I—I'm sorry," he croaked hoarsely.

He had hoped that would suffice and be good enough, but judging by the devilish glint in Master's ice-cold blue eyes, Reek knew it wasn't.

" _Look_ at her, Reek," Ramsay commanded, his voice almost a lazy drawl as he swiveled his head to look at Lady Sansa's impassive expression. "An apology doesn't mean anything if you're not looking the person in the eye."

Reek stiffened, feeling the muscles in his back and shoulders tense, and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he dared to lift his gaze to meet Lady Sansa's. "I—I'm sorry," he whispered. "F-for…killing your brothers."

Sansa gave the tiniest of nods. If the tension in the room would have been a color, the air would have been scarlet blood-red, thick, and garish in the uncomfortable tension. Reek drew in a breath and held it, waiting.

Reek could feel the fear in his chest waiting to take over as he let out a slow controlled breath and attempted to loosen his body movements. To his relief, and he could feel the beginnings of tears well in the corners of his eyes as Master broke into a wide grin, satisfied with Reek's response. "There!" he laughed. "Over and done with. Doesn't everyone feel better, I know I do. Reek is your wedding gift, milady. Might I present to you the gift of revenge, vengeance, call it what you will. I give you Reek on the eve before our wedding, Lady Sansa. He is yours to do with whatever you see fit, though I recommend giving the boy a good long hot bath first before going anywhere near him. You—"

But Ramsay was cut off mid-sentence as Sansa's hand cracked across his face, snapping it back with the sheer force of her blow and causing her head to reel sickeningly as it slammed into the headrest of Ramsay's chair.

When the black dots seemed to quit covering Ramsay's vision, Sansa had bolted from her chair, brushing her hands on the skirts of her gown and stormed out of the mess hall, slamming the doors behind her so hard that they rattled on their hinges. An uncomfortable tittering of the wedding guests emerged as everyone sat in a stunned silence, not sure what to make of what had just happened. Reek cowered in the corner.

All eyes in the mess hall were fixated upon the doorway as Ramsay bolted from his chair and made to follow Lady Sansa as she exited.

She vacated the premises without so much as a second glance backwards as all eyes stared at Sansa, unable to believe what she had done.


	13. Sansa

**Sansa**

When Ramsay had revealed to Sansa Theon, who had been lingering in the shadows, and seeing the battered, broken, much changed man in front of her, that had been the breaking point of her patience. She had not been thinking when she'd drawn back her hand and slapped Ramsay's cheek, how the sound was as loud as a clap and had resonated within the walls of the mess hall. It was quiet in the hallways as she stormed away from the mess hall and outside towards the courtyard, to the single stone bench where she collapsed, and struggled to regain control of her breathing.

Sansa paused a few paces away from her chambers, smoothing the skirts of her red velvet and gold gown. To wear Lannister colors had been her idea, hers, and hers alone. A gift from Tyrion a week after their wedding, it truly was a thing of beauty, and she had thought it would displease Ramsay the most. It had been solely her idea. No one else's.

She had…she had _slapped_ him. Sansa was quite surprised Ramsay hadn't bolted after her and dragged her back to the mess hall kicking and screaming the moment that she stormed out the doors of the mess hall. Flexing her fingers into a fist gingerly, Sansa winced as she noticed the red markings, especially on her ring finger, where the gold band Ramsay had given her glittered proudly even in the bright winter light of the fading evening as daylight passed.

Sansa tried to quell the aching after bitter taste of sweet revenge that lingered and had settled upon her tongue, but its bitterness drew her in to take another sip knowing she would be more alert than she had only minutes before. She felt an immense wave of guilt for what she had done, more so for Lord Roose and Lady Walda at the embarrassment of the spectacle Sansa had caused.

Though if she was being honest with herself, Ramsay was the one at fault. _Not_ her. He had chosen to parade that poor boy in front of her, tormenting him and torturing him like he was nothing more than an accursed freak in some traveling band of performers. Sansa felt guilty for what she had done, but she had not the power within her to stop herself from her hand reaching out.

Seeing that familiar sign of subtle yet effective bullying in poor Reek, and at Ramsay's hand, reminded her of Joffrey, and the torment she had suffered at Joffrey Baratheon's hand, and something within her had shifted and she felt the change within.

She knew she should have tried to find a way to stop herself, to possibly go back to Lord Roose and Lady Walda for the despicable way that she had behaved, apologize before things escalated to dangerous levels and were even worse than before, but she just couldn't.

Frustrated and unable to sit still, she paced the length of the white rose gardens, feeling as if her lungs were slowly filling with water, as if there was just less space in them for much-needed air. Inflating them felt like pushing up a lead weight upon her chest. She sucked in the air as if it were lemon cakes, yet she was standing in the rose gardens which thrived in the winter on a pristine winter's day. If the birds around her could sing and fly, then why couldn't she breathe?

Why then, was it so hard for Sansa right now? _Can you feel it?_ The demonic voices inside her mind taunted her. Sansa let out a shaking breath and curled her hands into fists around the iron grille of the garden's gates. If she stretched further, then maybe she could reach the locking mechanism, or climb through it, but she highly doubted she could scale the wall or fit through those bars. Perhaps once upon a time when she was small, but no longer. The crisp, cold and sharp ice filling your lungs like water. Sansa inhaled sharply, feeling her eyesight sting and blur.

_All around you, clean and dark. Looking down your path, seeing nothing. But you have not the will to fight your fate any longer_.

Sansa felt a horrible tightness in her throat as she shoved her knuckles into her mouth, horrified and yet relieved at what she had done. Though she was furious with Theon for what he had done, even Sansa knew that the young man did not deserve such treatment. Her lungs felt as though they could not expand enough.

The exertion brought out another bout of breathlessness, like the air around her itself was devoid of air for her to breathe. Her ribs heaved up and down, but no benefit to the young woman came. Only dizziness. Sansa pressed her forehead against the cold metal of the iron grille's gate, closing her eyes, willing her body to return to normal, to will the nausea and sickness to pass through.

"It's really never something you get used to," Sansa whispered, still resting her head against the gate, her hand outstretched and she curled her fingers into a fist over the gate. She could feel the cold and slimy fingers just crawling up her spine and squeezing her neck with all the strength they had. Fear. It was such a human emotion.

One emotion that she was beginning to think her future lord husband did not possess. Sansa wondered if Ramsay felt anything at all. She thought that her intended, all he felt was rage. Pure anger. Anger. That emotion, which was like a vexing of the soul, a swelling of the veins waiting to explode, like the rushing of blood to your head as you said things you would rather left unsaid at all. Sansa could not stay in these damned gardens a minute longer, it hurt too much. Clutching herself as it was frigid outside Winterfell, she wished she had thought to bring a cloak, but she was not about to go outside and face Lord Ramsay just yet. Let him stew in it.

In the snow as she wandered towards the woods near the lakeside, at the heart of the godswoods, there was no way to know which direction to go, the usual landmarks were hidden behind the white that swirled so densely. Even one of the men, and she had to squint to see which guard was closely tailing her, and she realized with a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that it was none other than Ramsay himself, who had, it would seem, followed her out here to the woods, was little more than a crude outline of a human mostly erased by the frigid winter storm.

The soft crystals Sansa would have found so bewitching from the other side of a pane of glass, found their way into her dress and onto her skin in every way possible. The snowflakes packed down her neck and between the fabric that flapped at the front. She could feel her blood turn to ice and her skin become icy. Perhaps it would be better if she froze out here to her death. It would save her the pain of marrying the Bastard of Bolton on the morrow. She glanced towards Ramsay.

He should not have followed her out here, not in this weather. The disorientation was a given, and the cold was a killer. As much as she despised her betrothed, she would not have Lord Bolton freeze to his death, and she tried to cry out for him to go back.

To leave her here and let her freeze to her death.

Ramsay's bellows could be heard over the harsh gusts of wind. "What are you doing out here, Sansa?" he roared, his voice as cold as the wind chill. "Trying to run away from me?" Ramsay snarled.

Sansa opened her mouth to answer, but the wind carried her voice faster than she could speak. The world of the godswood was being vanquished around her, and she'd be with it too if they did not go back inside to the sanctuary and warmth of Winterfell. Sansa, in a strange sense of hypnotism, as though her feet were no longer taking direction from her body, seemed drawn to the river. She did not know why she was so drawn to it, but it seemed to be calling to her.

The water that had run so freely in the failing light of dusk was now trapped in icy form, beautiful under the glare of the moonlight, but as solid as the frozen ground beneath Sansa's boot. She looked away from Ramsay, struggling to form her thoughts. "Answer me!" he roared, taking two long strides forward to close off the gap of space between them. "Are you _deaf_ now, Sansa? I asked you a question, woman! Why are you out here?"

Sansa inhaled a sharp breath of icy air as she watched Lord Ramsay regard her with a careful, suspicious eye. He glanced around wildly, a low guttural growl forming in his chest. "Who the hell is out here with you? Another man? I should cut off his balls and force them down his throat if he doesn't reveal himself."

"No one," whispered Sansa meekly, seemingly drawn into Ramsay's eyes. No one feature made her future husband quite so handsome, but the Bolton's man eyes, blue like hers, came close.

People often spoke of the colors of eyes, as if that were any importance, yet his would be beautiful no matter what shade.

Ramsay growled again as a gust of cold wind blew through the air and tousled his dark locks. He ungloved his left hand and reached out to touch Sansa's arm, making to grip onto her tightly.

She recoiled as soon as he made contact, and his face blanched. Ramsay let out a hiss of pain and jerked his hand back as though the very gentle touch of her skin where his fingers had grazed her collarbone had burned her. This…this was not just any other ice.

No. This godforsaken weather was unnaturally cold. The kind of coldness that left them unable to warm up without retreating into the safety of Winterfell. While the snow had been pleasant to look at, at first, it would simply be whiter from the dark gray skies.

Sansa lifted her chin to gaze the man she would marry on the morrow, not wanting to meet his glacier blue, piercing gaze. The young woman's once fiery blue eyes seemed doused in ice water, unnervingly making the blue even paler. It was like she had drifted in a shell, too tough to reach. Ramsay's gaze drifted downward towards her left hand, admiring the yellow-gold of the ring he'd gifted her the day she arrived in Winterfell as a token of their union. He faltered in his resolve as he noted a scar he'd not seen before, seemingly self-induced. He wondered what she feared.

Ramsay could tell by the way Sansa turned away from him that she was insecure, the way her eyes cast downward, and she had trouble looking him in the eyes. The internal brokenness that only a person exposed to abuse could ever experience.

The mental scars were a tapering factor in the nonexistent serenity of Sansa Stark's domestic noble life, perhaps when she had lived with the Lannisters. They caused an agony that could only be seen on the inside. The pain that, unknowingly or not, Sansa was allowing Ramsay to see. The young redhead noticed where his eyes had wandered and her face flushed pink, and she gave a desperate tug of the sleeve of her gown and promptly pulled it back over her hand.

The stories and troubling accusations of the Stark girl's strange behavior, as told to him by Reek prior to the dinner tonight, only seemed to grow as time passed, the more Ramsay learned of her. Last night it would seem, Sansa had lain awake for hours. Not able to sleep, to dream, to do much of anything at all except stare.

Ramsay bristled as Sansa said nothing to him in response, turning away. "Mind the ice!" he called out harshly over the fierce winds as he watched his young bride tread lightly across the frozen surface of the river towards the spot where Sansa had noticed a flock of cardinals. Ramsay stopped. The river before the heart tree was strange, the ice wasn't flat like it should be, but rather broken.

"More like the bark of a tree," he growled, to which Sansa heard her future husband, though she made no passing comment.

In the cracks, the water was discolored, more like glacial melt in its brilliant blue. Sansa knelt down to detect the aroma, it was like nothing she had ever smelt before, not bitter, not sweet, but…

Almost soothing in a way. Taking a stick, she poked at the ice and it was as solid as it looked beneath her brown boots, and it moved in just the way it should, only much slower. The ripples radiated out as the young woman expected, but almost as if in slow motion, like time momentarily seemed to halt in the gesture.

Sansa took her eyes off the water and stood up, listening, and watching to the chirp of the birds who thrived on this weather.

Even with the wind, there was hardly a breeze in the trees that lined the edges of the woods, which unnerved Lady Sansa greatly.

She whirled around on the edge of her boot and she slipped, hardly having time to cry out, as she had only cared about what was above her, trying to see what she could, admiring the cardinals.

The colors of the river around her swirled and clouded her vision, leaving nothing but white spots. She let out a startled cry as she realized nothing was happening as her footing had faltered.

She had slipped on the thick ice. The ice broke beneath her boots: cold water, no breath, no pain in her lungs whatsoever.

The evening's winter's moonlight that was only seconds ago so strong was now a blur. Her arms flailed against the icy water that stole heat from every part of her skin. Her head hit the ice and bubbles brushed against her cheek. One hand found the gap, shooting into the wintry air, hoping Ramsay or someone else would see it, though she highly doubted the bastard would save her, as her body gave one final push for the light above the ice.

Darkness and icy coldness enveloped Sansa completely. The water closed in around her, filling the young woman with a sense of panic and deep dread. She held her breath as long as she could, too long, in fact. Red and black splotches danced in front of her and she could not remember if her eyes were open or closed at all.

The coldness she had felt upon entering the river's water was completely gone. A desperate hot wave had come over her, warming even her frosted toes in her now drenched, icy, and probably ruined boots. Sansa's heart was beating rapidly in panic.

The urgency for air was more apparent than ever, and there were no red blotches in her line of vision anymore. It was all black, nothing but darkness. She opened her mouth, gasping for air, and then nothing. Sansa moved her arms like she was climbing rocks, but it was only ice water around—water that washed around her body, preventing access to precious air. water that washed around her body, preventing access to precious air. After only a few seconds of being completely submerged, her brain was in full panic mode, there were no coordinated movements, just clawing through the thick liquid that threatened to invade her lungs. From her lips came an explosion of air bubbles, moving away from her at a peculiar angle.

Sansa almost realized she wasn't facing upwards, that she was struggling perpendicular to the surface, that she could, if she strained to listen, almost faintly hear Ramsay shouts above her. Already, her thoughts were groggy. Her limbs slowed, stopped, and she began floating in the ice water of the lake like a limp child's rag doll.

That was when he saw _him._

Ramsay swimming downward from beneath the icy depths of the river's frozen over surface above, but she knew it was not to save her. He would kill her, to drown her in this icy, watery grave. But she knew it was only a vision, one that her mind had created to ease the painful death of drowning so horribly and unexpected like this, but it seemed so…so _real_. Even if she were to die unceremoniously like this, she knew Ramsay was no angel of death, no god was he.

She briefly wondered if Ramsay were tasked with lighting the way to the dimension the departing soul would be bound to for their next life. He swam toward her. But then Ramsay seemed to pause, eyeing Sansa completely submerged in the water much like a curious dog would look at something it was not sure if it could trust or not, and if it was deciding whether she was safe to eat.

A brilliant shade of blue met her own, though her vision was fading and fast, and a wrist—was it Ramsay's or maybe Ser Aleyn's?—grabbed onto her wrist, and slowly, Sansa was towed up towards the night life above, back to her real life, to where Ramsay Bolton waited for her at the foot of the ice, no doubt to flay her alive for her insubordination of what she had done earlier in the mess hall.

Her body shook so violently on the ice as she was pulled out of the icy water that she could not form a coherent thought due to the incessant chattering of her teeth and how soaked through to the bone that Sansa was. Her stomach contracted so violently, she didn't even care who it was that had saved her and was watching her suffering as she retched up the water that had only moments ago filled her lungs and threatened to drown her. Her lungs drank in the freezing air in noisy rasps and again, the hands came, urgent voices—did the voice belong to Ramsay? Ser Aleyn? Or was it Lord Roose?

She did not know. Instructions. Someone, probably Ramsay, was telling Sansa to stay awake, not to go to sleep as the young man hurriedly wrapped his cloak around the young woman's violent, convulsing form. Ramsay was talking to her, asking her what the hell had happened.

"S—slipped," she mumbled, casting her eyes downward, not wanting to meet Ramsay's gaze. Begrudgingly, she had to admit that she owed him her life. Ramsay said not a word at first, wrapping the young woman in a warm swaddle of blankets and then said not a word as he gingerly lifted her in his arms bridal style, allowing her head to rest against his firm, stocky chest.

Sansa, at first startled and shocked by the sudden gesture, quickly shrunk into his warmth as much as she could, not sure what else to do in the moment. Ramsay wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, gently rubbing her back in small could feel the hatred and animosity burning a hole in the back of her skull, though to her immense relief, he did not comment on it.

Despite the heaviness and the icy feeling in the pit of her stomach, it fluttered a little at the selfless act Ramsay Bolton had just performed. Despite their differences, the man had saved her life. For that, she owed him. She sunk into the warmth of his side, appreciative of the simple gesture. His touch made the air a little warmer somehow, and she was grateful.

"What happened, Sansa?" Ramsay demanded hotly, his voice hard and rigid, his facial muscles tense, and his left eye began twitching randomly.

"S—slipped," she repeated hoarsely. Suddenly, her throat hurt. "You…saved…me," she whispered through the continued incessant chattering of her teeth. Sansa bit her lip to keep from biting her tongue off and fell silent as Ramsay grasped her by her elbow and wrenched her rather violently to her feet, still angry with her, draping an arm over her shoulder and supported most of her weight. "Th…th-thank y—you," she managed to gasp out.

"What were you _thinking_?" he snarled, his brows furrowing in a concern state as he scowled, regarding the young woman as he, upon seeing that she could no longer walk as her frozen state had thrown off her equilibrium, he gingerly lifted her in his arms and began to carry her bridal style back to the safety and warmth of the castle. "Didn't I _tell_ you to mind the ice?"

If Ramsay was being honest with himself, he did not like how his bride in his arms looked. Her lips were tinged blue, her face stark white. Dark circles had begun to form underneath her eyes as the cold wind moved in to meet the warmth of the young redhead's blood, as well as Ramsay's, their only defense against such ice and chill aside from their clothes, though Sansa's were currently soaked through to the bone and would do her no good.

If he did not get her back inside soon, she would freeze, and then their wedding on the morrow would be for naught.

Both Sansa and Ramsay felt the cold wash over their skin, again and again, only to be met by the beating of their hearts, again and again. The truth was, as hard as it was, given Ramsay was now supporting her weight, if Ramsay kept moving and doing what he could to keep his bride safe and warm and alive a minute longer, then they might both make it out of this alive.

They would win this battle. The ones who stopped were the ones who froze to death. There was a shriek from the trees that startled poor Sansa, whose nerves were already frayed from her near-death experience of drowning.

Ramsay noticed and gave her shoulder a surprisingly tender, encouraging squeeze. "Don't look at it," he advised bitterly. "It's just a branch twisting under the weight of all this ice," he grumbled darkly, keeping his eyes cast warily to the trees, but then his attention was drawn back towards the woman in his arms.

But Sansa could not help but be drawn to it. Something about the snowy path back to the castle rendered her speechless and unable to look away from its almost blindingly white hue. It was so…so…well… _white_. Staring at it was like staring at nothing, and to stare at it, she imagined herself engulfed in the vast loneliness that was this frigid storm. Oh, why had she ventured out? Had it been to escape Ramsay? To clear her head. Why? Now, look!

"Y—you're g—going to…kill me, a—aren't you," she whispered, still struggling to reign in control of the chatting of her teeth. She glanced down at her dress and cloak, both of which as well as her boots were soaked through to the bone, frozen. Under a pitch-black sky, the colors of the world became dull and muted, and yet…there was something about the pathway back to Winterfell that rendered it beautiful, at least in Sansa's eyes, it did.

The path sparkled and crunched, like sugar underfoot, and the coldness of the woods brought the young redhead noblewoman into life right now, into this beautiful, chilling moment of life. The trees showed their lofty arms once more, a smile playing upon Sansa's freezing lips, which were now still tinged a slight blue color.

Sansa was struggling to stay conscious, feeling her eyesight blur, but not because tears were welling up, though they were. Everything became fuzzy, and then she saw nothing at all. Her consciousness was floating through an empty space filled with a horrible blackness that was colder than than the ice from which she had just been rescued. Her heartbeats echoed loudly, pounding and echoing in her ears, alongside fading, weak, pitiful pleas for help.

The feeling in her body drained away. Then nausea crept from her stomach to her head. The world around her went black and Sansa fell into an uneasy sleep.

The last thing Sansa heard before she faded out of consciousness as she dove for the haze of black mists swirling in her thoughts, anything to escape the tide of his horrible pain at being submerged in frigid water, was Ramsay Bolton's voice, speaking to her.

_Ramsay_ , she thought wildly, her last cohesive thought before she passed out, struggling to speak his name from her lips.

The last thought before she lost herself to the darkness of a dreamless sleep was that the Bastard of Bolton had saved her life...


	14. Sansa

**Sansa**

Sansa awoke to the frigid cold of an unfamiliar room that smelled dank, moldy, and smelled of death. The coppery taste of blood lingered on her tongue and settled there. She blearily lifted her head and tried to focus her gaze more than a few feet in front of herself.

"Where am I?" she moaned, looking around to the best of her ability. For a moment, she wondered what had happened, and then it hit her, and she froze as she felt her insides curdle and freeze. " _Ramsay_!" she breathed, holding out her hands in front of her, feeling her fingertips curl into a protective fist over the scratchy woolen blanket that covered her person, soaking up whatever ghosts no doubt haunted this strange room that smelled of blood, death.

She felt the ghosts circulate right through her heart and become even quieter whispers, hearing the victims' screams. The room she was in, for lack of a better word, was roomy, airy, and eerie. Not one she recognized, and she liked to think that she knew Winterfell like the back of her own hand. Sansa furrowed her brow into a frown and sat up. An uneasy breeze wafted through the desolate room and gripped Sansa with its chilly touch and she felt a tremor of cold and fear travel down her spine and she clutched herself, wrapping her arms around her midriff.

A quick glance confirmed someone—hopefully, Hilda or one of the other maids—had changed her out of her wet things into a simple shift.

Sansa mumbled a quick curse under her breath and to her relief, saw a spare gown draped over the back of a nearby chair, a royal blue velvet dress with gold braided embroidery at the neckline and on the sleeves.

The chills finger's circled around Sansa's body, tenderly fondling every inch of the young redhead, pulling her shoulders tighter together as she huddled further into her dress for warmth, wishing she had a cloak.

The door to her room had been left slightly ajar, allowing a glorious but faint amber hue to meander like a narrow stream across the damp corridor. Sansa drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs and poked her head around the corridor. She did not recognize this part of Winterfell. "Could the Boltons have added on this segment during the invasion?" she whispered, careful to keep her voice low, for fear of who was listening. Lady Sansa did not even know _where_ she was in the castle.

Her mind instructed her not to move, but her body rose from her perch where she had been huddled in the furthest corner of the room, forsaking the makeshift mattress, trying to ignore the musky smell of sweat and something else that she could not quite identify that clung to her body like a disease, refusing to leave her alone. Sansa remembered she'd fallen.

_And that Ramsay saved you_ , Sansa's mind offered helpfully. _But why?_

She wracked her brain trying to remember any detail of Ramsay's face, what he had looked like right before she had lost consciousness, but it was like a ship straining to see a light in the darkness, and none came to Sansa.

Sansa felt her bare feet take one step, then another, leading her towards that amber light at the end of the corridor like a moth towards a flame, only the moth did not know where it was heading, and Lady Sansa did. To her death, undoubtedly.

Every step she took was met with a discordant shriek from her conscience, which was begging her to turn around. She pushed back her swirl of confusing thoughts to the back of her mind, ignoring them for now.

Gingerly, Sansa outstretched her arm and pushed open the door, and she was surprised to see a fire in the hearth of the fireplace on the far side of the room. Sansa could feel its heat, and a noise from behind her startled the young woman and she turned. There stood the Bastard of Bolton, his dark hair disheveled, dark circles underneath his eyes, and the man smelled horribly of blood and manure. Sansa crinkled her nose in disgust and tried not to pull a face.

She could not deny there was an evil lurking in those piercing blue eyes, and Sansa swallowed past the lump in her throat as Ramsay Bolton offered his bride-to-be what appeared to be a charming, genuine smile.

Though Sansa was not fooled. It was a miracle she opened her voice to speak, and nothing came out but a tiny, breathy little squeak of terror.

Wherein she did find it again, her voice was rough and course, barely above a whisper. Still, she asked the only thing she could of her fiancé.

"Why?" It was all she could say, though her meaning behind it was clear. _Why did you save my life? You could have easily let me drown…_

Ramsay gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. "If I should allow my future wife to die, then I would have no means of a legitimate heir."

Lies. Bullshit. Lord Roose Bolton would just procure him another girl.

Sansa wasn't buying his vague answer. Furrowing her brows into a frown, she quirked her brow at Ramsay, and struggled to formulate what was weighing on her mind, but at last she forced herself to speak her piece. "Thank you," she whispered, hating the crack in her soft tone.

"Sit." His voice came out almost as a bark. It was not a request. Sansa mutely nodded, seeing no other alternative as her eyes darted left and right, looking for an escape, anything but to sit and converse with _him_.

Sansa dipped her head in acknowledgement, taking a seat in the chair across from him, keeping her head bowed and her gaze averted from him, not wanting at all to look her betrothed in the eyes, knowing sooner or later that she would have to. "Why did you save me, Lord Bolton?"

"I already told you my reasons behind my actions yesterday," he spat, crossing one leg over the other and pouring himself a goblet of wine, not caring the uncomfortable glances Reek was shooting Lady Sansa. "Reek will pour you some of our finest Dornish wine if you should like," Ramsay announced coldly. "And then he will return to his cell, won't you, boy?" Ramsay growled, no semblance of warmth in his voice.

Sansa swallowed past the lump in her throat at Lord Ramsay's words.

_Yesterday_. That meant she had slept for an entire evening. Then today was the morrow and tonight she would be wed to the man seated across from her. She hoped her eyes did not betray her nervousness or fear.

Sansa sighed, the tiniest of gasps escaping her as she allowed Theon to pour her a glass of wine. "Thank you, Theon," she whispered, lowering her voice so that only the younger man could hear her. "I promise…"

_Promise what?_ The voices inside her head taunted. _To help him escape?_

Suddenly, Sansa felt quite guilty, not really certain what she had hoped to gain by attempting to try to speak to Theon Greyjoy in private.

Was it to reach him? To ask him questions? To demand he help her escape if there was even a shred of loyalty in his bones left to her family?

Sansa herself did not know the answer, nor did she have time to ponder it as Theon mumbled something incoherent under his breath and scampered away before Sansa had a chance to say anything else. The clearing of Ramsay's throat as he demanded his bride's attention jolted Lady Stark out of her musings of what exactly had happened to Theon during his time here with the Bolton's and back towards him, as he demanded it. His cold gaze was fixated upon her, completely unreadable. Seeing him face-to-face like this, in daylight, though whatever study they were in was rather dimly lit, left yet another impression on Sansa Stark.

He seemed a much more solid figure than before.

All except his blue eyes devoid of warmth. Those seemed never to change, and Sansa doubted they would. Sansa let out a yelp as the sound of a clanging behind her echoed throughout the room. Reek had dropped the wine flagon on the floor, spilling it onto the stone floor.

Ramsay didn't bother to stifle the low warning growl that escaped from his throat. His expression turned murderous as he rose from his chair and strode towards Reek, seizing fistfuls of the boy's filthy tunic, shaking it.

"You must be actively seeking new ways to test my patience, Reek," Ramsay growled, the tip of his nose practically touching poor Reek's. "Clean that up, you skamelar, and be sharp about it, or I'll cut off a finger." His deep voice was painfully bitter as he towered over Reek.

"Milord, it was an _accident_ ," retorted Sansa hotly, rising from her chair and moving to stand protectively in front of Theon, holding an arm out in front of Reek as though she thought that might prevent her intended from lashing out in anger. "Do not blame Theon, Lord Ramsay, for you are the one who makes him so nervous he can barely hold the flagon steady," she snapped, her blue eyes flashing indignantly with anger. "He does not deserve the cruelty you put him through, nor what you say. If anyone should apologize for what has transpired here, it is you, milord."

Sansa dipped her head, allowing a lock of her red hair to fall in front of her face like a curtain as Ramsay turned his wrathful gaze towards her, wanting nothing more than to put a quick end to this conversation.

Lord Bolton, however, was having none of it. Ignoring Sansa as if he found her forced pleasantries a bore, he moved away from his place and relinquished his hold upon Reek, though not before shoving him backward so violently that he tripped. "Clean that up and get out."

His voice was clipped and hard, the last vestiges of his patience tested.

"Y-yes, M-Master," Reek whispered hoarsely, getting on his knees, as he hastened to clean up the spilled red Dornish wine off the floor, which normally would have sent Ramsay's blood ablaze as new thoughts of cruelty to impart would have flickered through his mind now only sent waves of revulsion to his mind and Ramsay was forced to look away.

"How do you find it? The…new Winterfell…Your…new home. I take it your chambers, and everything is suited to your liking, Lady Sansa. I should want my wife to be comfortable. You unite our forces in the North, Lady Sansa, and if my wife is not happy..." Ramsay's voice trailed off and he smiled at her, though it came across as more of a grimace than a genuine smile, a gesture that sent a tremor of fear down Sansa's spine.

"What?" exclaimed Sansa sourly, who had been about to take a sip of wine, promptly lowered her goblet and set it down on the side table next to her armchair and was well aware of her forlorn and worn expression.

She was, for the moment, unable to form a polite response as the pretentious voice got the better of her. "I—I don't know what you mean, milord," she mumbled sheepishly, reaching up a slightly trembling hand to brush her long plaited braid over her shoulders where it belonged.

"Winterfell, Lady Sansa," replied Ramsay Bolton sarcastically, rolling his eyes, just as the early red of the sunrise, which had been streaming through the windows, caught the gleam of his raven black hair and it shone. "Do not even think of lying to me, little dove. Do. Not. Do not make me say it a second time..."

The coldness in his tone was unmistakable.

"It is…beautiful. Just as I remembered," she replied, unfazed, glancing around the unfamiliar room. _Lies_ , her mind screamed at her. _It's not at all like you remembered and it will never be home. Not without your brothers and Arya and Mother and Father by your side. This is not home_.

"So, then you admit that there is still a part of you that finds something joyous about this place? Here with us. With _me_ ," Ramsay taunted, smug.

Sansa blinked owlishly at the man; her mouth slightly agape in shock.

Registering the dumbfounded expression on the She-Wolf of Winterfell's beautiful features, Ramsay reacted by smirking in an almost intimate manner, as if he were enjoying some private joke with himself.

He lifted the rim of his cup to his lips and drank heavily, all the while never once taking his glance off Sansa, carefully studying her facial expressions over the rim of his goblet, scrutinizing her reactions.

Ramsay's lack of response irked Sansa, and she began to feel a little nervous. Tonight was the eve of their wedding, so what on earth did he want with her now? Was he just toying with her, to coax more feelings of guilt to the forefront of her mind, to make her feel grateful that he had saved her from drowning in the river near the heart tree in the woods?

Noting his continued silence as he poured himself a fresh goblet of wine and drinking, Sansa began to feel agitated. If Lord Ramsay wanted something of her, why did he not just come out right and demand it?

Was he still pursuing her, was that it? Though Sansa had thought she'd made her feelings towards her future husband quite clear and plain to him. "Is there something my lord wishes of me, Lord Bolton?" asked Sansa, lifting her chin slightly to meet his gaze, unable to play along with the insufferable man's antics any longer. "Why am I here with you?"

The harsh bark of Ramsay Bolton's voice rendered her frozen, rooted to her chair and unable to move, though she wanted nothing more than to bolt for the door at his response. "Because I wish for you to be here. It…pleases me to look at you, Lady Sansa. You will make a good wife. I have brought you here in pursuit of that urge which until now has remained silent, that our passions may fuse and merge, Lady Sansa."

He curled his fingers into claws and raked them over the fabric of his armchair and bared his teeth. So that was what he wanted of her, then.

Sansa bit her bottom lip in a slight pout, feeling the all-too familiar spark of hot anger welling like a fire-seed planted by a dragon in the pit of her stomach, as it had whenever she was around men who displeased her. Men like Lord Baelish, Lord Roose, Tyrion, and now… _Ramsay_.

"In your mind, you've succumbed to me, and now, here you are…no second thoughts. It was your decision to come here, Lady Stark, was it not?" he breathed, and Sansa could hear the hitch in Ramsay's cold tone.

Letting out a concentrated but slightly shaking breath, Sansa lifted her chin and levelled her gaze as she did her best not to quirk her brows in a sarcastic manner, of which would not help her in this situation right now.

Ramsay must have appeared to enjoy this, since he smirked. "What you did the other night, Lady Sansa, was…inexcusable, yet, here we are…."

His nonchalant gaze now turned towards Sansa as he set his cup down and with surprising speed like a panther that had eyed and stalked its prey, he bolted from his chair and crossed the room and leaned down slightly, closing off the gap of space between them. He was leaning in close enough for her to kiss him if she was of a mind to try such a thing.

"Why is it that you think…that I have not killed you yet?" he growled, his icy blue gaze turning intense as he stared deep into Sansa's blue eyes.

She felt like she was being questioned and yet at the same time, Sansa was aware that Lord Bolton, for reasons unknown to her, actually seemed to be listening to her. Strange. She was led to believe of him that his only interest in women was to seduce them and bed them. He remembered.

Sansa did not know how she felt about him remembering her words in the corridor. Still, she answered as steadily as she could. "You need me."

There was a pause before Ramsay continued. The intensity in his eyes seemed to soften, and it was replaced by something unreadable, something vague which Sansa Stark could not discern, and she hated it.

"Why?" he breathed, and Sansa gulped as his blue eyes widened. "What is to stop me from disposing of you once you've…fulfilled your purpose?" Ramsay growled, and Sansa flinched, but did not dare avert her gaze from her betrothed, not even when he lifted a finger and caressed her cheek, almost tenderly brushing back a lock of hair away from her shoulder. "Hmm?" he crooned, still continuing that infuriating behavior of trailing the pads of his fingers along her collarbones, which sent a surprising tingle of heat throughout her body, warming her.

"Milord, I…" She hissed as the pads of his fingers came to cup her chin.

He was mocking her. "Tell me, beloved." His tone was curt and hard.

Sansa swallowed nervously. "Because like it or not, Lord Bolton, I am your key to the North. To Winterfell. And should you wish to maintain your hold on it. You need me alive. And you need an heir of noble blood, a firstborn who might remove some of the…stain on your name."

A muscle in Ramsay's jaw twitched, and he looked…rather curious. "You have such a low opinion of yourself, Lady Sansa?" he asked.

"No." Her voice came out sharper than she would have liked, a tone of impatience lacing into her normally kind and shy tone. Why in the seven hells was he asking her all of these questions, or for that matter, speaking to her at all? He should just take what he wanted of her right now.

Perhaps there was a part of Sansa that had foolishly believed that after the other night, he would simply rape her, kill her and be done with her.

She almost— _almost_ —would have preferred that. Anything but this. Now, something about her future lord husband's presence was putting her on edge. "You feel as though I am treating you unfairly here, don't you?" Ramsay spat, leaning down even further. Sansa shirked back into her own armchair as far as she could, until her back pressed against the edge of the chair, and the tip of Ramsay's slender nose touched hers. "Don't you?" he repeated, his tone going dangerously soft and quiet.

Sansa would have preferred it if he would have shouted. "Not by the other members of staff or your lord father, milord. But you, Ramsay—"

Ramsay growled, curling his hands into fists over Sansa's wrists, effectively pinning her to the chair. She was completely at his whims.

"Well, my darling, let me tell you a useful truth so that you do not set yourself up for disappointment. Life is pain, Lady Stark. You want more, I can tell that much, but life is unfair. It's people who are the monsters."

Sansa blinked as Ramsay's mouth twisted into a sneer. His tone was bitter, though his speech cut like a dagger plunged straight in her heart.

He did not sound as though he enjoyed spewing such a venomous stream of dark thoughts to her. Sansa frowned as he looked away, down towards her lips. Feeling a surge of panic course through her veins, Sansa began to speak rapidly in response, her eyes cast downward at his boots.

"I cannot offer you an apt response, Lord Bolton, because our conversation has strayed too far," she began hastily. "The—the only reassurance I can offer to you is that my…reaction, will not happen again."

Ramsay sneered, baring his canines. His smile was wolfish, predatory. He leaned in further and Sansa was surprised when his lips pressed against hers. "There it is again. That look. You called of me the other night a beast. A monster. If that is what you think of me, then so be it," he growled. "Oh, my darling…You are much mistaken if you should think that you have any hope of freedom in our marriage. _You're mine_ , Sansa."

His powerful hands relinquished their grip on her wrists and landed on her waist, and his strong fingers came to grip painfully tight on her wrist.

"You still must be punished for your actions the other night, little dove," Ramsay growled, and his lips clamped down hard on hers, hard enough that she could taste the welling of blood on her bottom lip.

"What…?" Sansa let her mouth drop open in shock as Ramsay straightened his posture, as her wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"You'll see. I think you're going to be quite happy as my wife, Lady Sansa," grinned Ramsay, flashing her that disarmingly charming white smile that did nothing to mask the anger that lingered in his blue eyes. "You aren't going anywhere that I don't want you to, Sansa. You are mine to do with as I please. I think I like you, so I'll keep you. Just…close your eyes and pretend you're back in the old Winterfell," Ramsay said and threw back his head and laughed, and it was…evil.

Sansa was well and truly trapped here in this place. Her heart sank as she watched Ramsay stride out of the room, hearing the locking of the deadbolt behind her, and Sansa knew he would not have been careless enough to leave a pin or anything with which she could pick the lock.

Lady Sansa heard his pounding footsteps slowly disappear down the corridor, and she turned back to see that the door was closed, locked.

Making a beeline straight for the door, she tried to force it to open, her bare hands pushing against the rough surface of the door, which was cracked and weathered with age. It was all in vain.

The door stood stubbornly in its place. There was not even a viable window in this room, save for the one over by the fireplace's hearth, and if she broke that, Ramsay would hear and then she would be dead, as the man would sic his hounds on her to rip out her throat. A shudder ran through Sansa.

_Trapped_. "I'm trapped," she whispered to no one in particular. She was well and truly confined within the walls of this very room. Suddenly, she felt claustrophobic. A metallic smell hung and lingered in the air, almost rendering it suffocating and it became difficult to breathe.

It reminded her somewhat of the smell of dried blood, and for a moment, Sansa found herself wondering if she was the first person Ramsay had brought to this place, where his prisoners lived, or if she was the first. The room was pitch dark, and she had no choice but to huddle back into the same corner, wrap her arms around her knees, and pray that someone—anyone—would find her before it was too late for her.

She was going to die here if she could not think of a way to save herself.


	15. Ramsay

**Ramsay**

Sansa was not alone in questioning what the bloody hell had just happened. Ramsay slammed the door to her cell on the way out and ran his fingers through his hair, growling in frustration. What the hell had he been thinking? _You are much mistaken if you think you have freedom in our marriage. You're mine?_

Ramsay slunk like he was part of the shadow world back towards his own chambers. His heart was cold, and his mind had no room for pity. Well, all of what he had uttered to the Stark girl back there had been true. She _was_ his.

For his only 'safe haven' was one with many victims to flay alive, victims who became paralyzed with fear before he even so much as laid a finger on them. But his greatest satisfaction lay in taking away peoples' loved ones, he could almost taste the difference. Knowing that he'd struck a blow into the lives of families, friends, was sickly sweet and intoxicating to Ramsay, better than sex.

And now, as he stalked back up the stairwell, down the corridor and made to head for his chambers, he wondered what had gotten into him, and why he could not shake the scent of lavender and honeysuckle from his senses. Her hair.

_Like…like winter fire_ , he thought wildly, and just the thought of their wedding in a few hours was enough to send a ravaging fire through his loins.

Ramsay exhaled a long breath through his nose. He did not know exactly what had prompted him to speak to the girl as he had only mere moments ago.

At the thought of everything over the last few evenings he had learned of Lady Stark while in his company, it was that his bride was becoming a rather large problem for him. He let out a growl of frustration and curled his hands into fists to prevent at striking out at something in anger, which was a first for him.

Every single time he was forced to interact with Lady Stark, that strange creature, he seemed to lose his nerve (not to mention his temper) and act out irrationally, so much that he did not feel as though he were in control of his actions. Ramsay was having trouble trying to understand it. She was a _woman_.

Comparing himself to Sansa was like comparing a wolf to a mouse. He had no reason to be caught off guard and rattled by her theatrics and her outbursts.

Part of felt that he should have just left the Stark girl to drown in that lake. It was nonsensical, the way he had saved her. Ramsay, not quite wanting to enter his chambers just yet, turned towards the right and headed down the opposite stairwell, towards the dungeons. Maybe a good flaying would help ease his mind.

Ramsay Bolton felt his anger subside as a new thought began to enter his mind. Furrowing his brows in contemplation as he descended the stairwell, his knuckles were white with the effort to steady himself as he gripped hold of the bannister and paused, needing a moment to think. Come to think of it, why hadn't he just taken what he wanted? The way she had dared to defy his commands the other night had set an insatiable fire within his loins.

Letting out a growl of frustration, he lifted a hand to his brow, feeling his temples begin to ache and throb. Wine was what he needed, not a flaying.

There would be plenty of time for quenching his blood lust later.

Ramsay had never suffered from such a horrible problem before, how this celestial-like creature was getting under his skin, and what was even worse, was how he seemed to be allowing it to happen. Partly because no woman had ever dared disobey him in the past, let alone speak back to him as Sansa Stark had. He was used to women fawning over his good looks and lifting the hems of their dresses in order to gain even an ounce of the Bastard of Bolton's attentions.

Ramsay scowled, his lips pursing into a thin line. This damned insufferable woman. She was unlike any human he had ever encountered before, and this was not exactly in a good way. He had only been in her presence but a small handful of times, and yet each time, it seemed as though he forgot that he was a bastard, the Skinflayer, even, for a moment, who she was, and what his family had done.

It was disconnecting. Sansa Stark made him feel on edge, like his groin was going to explode if he didn't fuck her senseless following the commencement of their wedding ceremony later this evening. She made him feel…fucking _nervous_.

_Nervous_. What in the gods' name was happening to him. "Seven hells," he cursed through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched in anger and blue eyes narrowed.

Ramsay could not reverse what he had allowed to happen to Lady Stark ever since she stepped through those doors of the new and improved Winterfell estate.

There was a small part of him that felt relieved, almost grateful in a way, that Sansa had looked at him just now with such scorn, as if he were the very devil.

In truth, she was wrong to think of him in those terms, but Ramsay had simply been too stunned to react rationally the first time he had met Lady Sansa.

Sansa was a far too outspoken bitch, but somehow, he had let her get away it, not once, not twice, but thrice. Perhaps he had saved her from suffering a horrible icy death because he had wanted to challenge her, as much as himself.

Find out what it was about this insufferable wench that made him seem so unhinged, and if he had allowed her to perish in those icy waters, he never would know the truth, and not knowing was a fate worse than any skin flaying.

Ramsay smiled, and just the gesture enough alone was enough to make any sane man who happened to stumble across the bastard of Roose Bolton in that moment immediately turn on the heel of their boot and go the opposite direction. Well, not a fourth time. When he finally did succeed in revealing her weak spot, and all he had to do was marry the girl, fuck her, and sire an heir, he would no doubt lose all interest in Lady Stark and move on with his life.

Ramsay frowned, folding his burly arms across his chest as he continued to ruminate over his thoughts as he sat on the top step of the grand stone stairwell.

It's quiet. Too quiet almost. A creaking. There's something lurking in the shadows. An evil no one but he could see. A monster that tormented the people of Winterfell. It sought out the weak and made itself a home inside their heads.

Inside Ramsay's head…he could feel it, pounding and throbbing at the back of his skull, raging inside of him. Just under the surface. Just loud enough for him to hear, but there's a door in between them. Ramsay had locked it in a room the day Lady Stark had dared to step foot back on the soil of her former home.

He tried in vain to keep it away from the woman whom he was to marry this very eve. But it was still there…tearing through the holes, trying to reach what little was left of Ramsay's sanity. His humanity, what little of it he had been fortunate enough to possess in the first place.

It was only a matter of time before it managed to break through and take total control. It's been locked up for days, but the door Ramsay had put between the beast and himself was starting to collapse, to crumble. And It Knows. Ramsay had locked in the mirror this morning, before the girl had arrived in his study and had seen it, staring back at him. Watching him through his own blue eyes, glacier cold, devoid of warmth.

Seeing everything he saw. It was waiting for Ramsay. Hoping that the bastard of Bolton would let his guard down and slip up. Knowing that sooner or later, that door would break. Lately, it had been finding ways to show itself, like that moment where he had almost fucked her in the hallway, not even having the decency to drag the girl back to her quarters, or his, not giving a fuck what she thought of him. Ways to change itself. Ways to change Ramsay permanently.

As the seconds turned to minutes and the minutes became an hour as he was content to just sit there on the step, the monster began to look more like him than anything else. And it was in that moment that Ramsay realized that without Sansa as his bride, without a legitimate heir, that he could lose everything…

The monstrous side of his personality had always gone unnoticed in Winterfell, except by his victims upon which he preyed, siccing his hounds on his choices, relishing in the hunt. He wasn't invisible, but he might as well have been for all the attentions Father had paid him over the years growing up.

The women were easier to pick off, tender and succulent in their fear, with their supple flesh. It was why he frequently let the whores go in the woods.

He did not care whether it be woman, man, or child that he hunted. As long as he got what he wanted, in the end. Ramsay's frown deepened as he lifted his head and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror which had been hung on the wall just across the way, and he visibly flinched. He was hating all these fucking mirrors and was of a mind to smash every single goddamned one in Winterfell.

A few lines were laid upon his forehead, but they were dismissive as tricks of the dim light in the dank corridor of Winterfell. His eyebrows were impossibly straight, his eyes an icy cold blue. Eyes that told of many secrets but held them locked in a strongbox so beautiful that you wouldn't dare to open it for fear of what you would find within. The most striking features about his appearance was his thin, hollow, almost sunken in cheekbones that gave Ramsay almost a gaunt and haunting look to him, which only emphasized the glacier blue in his eyes.

It highlighted the frown on his mouth and somehow made him seem even more authoritative than his title and aura already suggested, or his reputation.

If one ventured close enough, his blue eyes would hungrily envelope yours and pull you towards him until you well and truly caught in the man's trap.

It was nothing Ramsay did precisely, it just looked as if he had a secret you would enjoy hearing about. Ramsay's secret, and he would never confess this to anybody (not that he had anybody to confess such a secret to) was that he currently felt conflicted about what to do with his precious little bride. His Sansa.

He was, after all, a killer, and the rightful thing to do would be that once she had sired him an heir or two, both strapping young boys like him, would be to dispose of Sansa before he grew bored of her, but, strangely enough, he found that he did not want to do such a thing. Strange. He usually had no interest in keeping his bedwarmers as he liked to call all of his girls around. Even Myranda had finally run her due course, though now she served as Lady Sansa's maid.

Ramsay snorted, rolling her eyes at that thought. "I'm sure the bitch is going to _love_ servicing my bride," he chuckled darkly, a smirk tugging on his lips.

A part of him wished that he could observe that little exchange hidden in the shadows, but he had other preparations to prepare for himself, so he could not.

He let out a haggard sigh and wearily rubbed his temples. He knew he did not want to kill Sansa. " _Yet_ ," he growled darkly, still glowering at his reflection in the mirror across the way, his jaw clenched in anger. He was of half a mind to rise from his perch on the step, go over and smash the fucking glass in a million pieces.

Ramsay knew all too well what the stories surrounding men like him were. The Bastard of Roose Bolton knew the stories all too well. How the legends of the servants said that Ramsay's heart died in its cavity when he was only five years old, that he putrefied and made a heavy black slime about his lungs as thick as underworld tar. That was how he became a killer and why.

That his emptiness was his madness, that he took human lives over and over again in the most brutal of ways, as if Ramsay thought he may possess the hearts and souls of his victims, yet it was never that way for him, even if he wanted it.

And to be healed, some woman, somewhere, had to love him, to reform his heart as if it was the finest of clay, then set it beating with pure nature's essence.

So, until he found such a girl to forgive all that he had done, to break these goddamned universal scales and set him free, his killing sprees would continue.

For a moment, Ramsay startled, and the look on his face might have been comical were he not royally and utterly fucking pissed at how _she_ was affecting him. For that brief second, Ramsay Bolton began to think, his thoughts drifting.

To thoughts of _her_. His Sansa, that girl with the hair like winter fire.

"Sansa…" he whispered, relishing how her name rolled off his tongue like a poisoned honey, the beginnings of a sneer curling on his thin lips. The only one besides perhaps Myranda that did not seem to be afraid of him. But she would be, very soon, of this, Ramsay was certain. He was going to make sure of this.

It was, after all, the only semblance of reassurance that he would get to ensure that Sansa Stark of Winterfell remained _his_ , and _only_ his. No one else's. _His_.

Ramsay loved the curves of Sansa's softness. With her fiery temper and her ability to dare to speak her mind, she was, begrudgingly, perhaps the most interesting creature he had ever met, this bitch who had dared to reject him.

She had safe eyes, perhaps that's the best way that the lord could put it. Age could not touch Sansa Stark's beauty. Sansa was something of an enigma to him, one that he could not quite put his finger on, and this infuriated Ramsay greatly.

Men desired her, and that fact sent his blood boiling and the ache in his loins whelming and screaming for him to do something about it, to turn the hell around right fucking now and break down the door of the room he'd locked his pretty little bride in, and take her right there on the floor, fuck their wedding.

He'd waited long enough, and she had gotten a strange look in her eyes, right before she'd lost consciousness after he'd rescued her from her grisly demise of drowning to an icy death in the woods, one that he felt a pang of jealousy toward.

Sansa Stark had had stardust in her eyes, and Ramsay wanted it to be directed towards him. For him. He wanted to be the one to take her for himself and himself alone, fuck her, and she would bear his children and keep the Bolton lineage alive and strong. She would be his wife, forever, and how sweet it would be. The girl would never want for anything in life ever again with him by her side. Sansa Stark's little imperfections made the girl almost painfully perfect.

There was a kind of shyness to her, hesitation in her body's movements and a quiet submissive softness to her voice, which was also quite timid, like a soft breeze in summer. Her pale skin was creamy and white, shining like a beacon of white light, glowing whenever she moved, so fragile, you feared that she might break, and yet, so flawless, and smooth, her movements fluid and languid, almost angelic. "So soft…" To Ramsay, his bride was almost perfect. _Almost_. There was still the matter of her outspoken personality, which he would quell. "You'll make a good wife to me soon, Sansa," he growled. _Or no man will have you_.

"Sir?" came a guard's voice, sounding concerned. The new arrival's voice pulled him out of his steady stream of thoughts about the young redheaded Lady of Winterfell, and the spell the witch had momentarily cast upon Ramsay lifted.

Gritting his teeth in anger, he was momentarily furious that this bastard had interrupted his thoughts of the Stark girl, and how his desire to fuck her was reaching his limit, how he wasn't sure if he would be able to hold off for longer.

Ramsay swiveled his head and opened his mouth to bark some insult at the guard, when he caught snippets of a different pair of guards' conversation, both men resting against a stone pillar, their arms folded across their chests, one leg crossed over the other as they conversed to each other in low murmuring tones.

_Not the position a guardsman ought to be adapting_ , Ramsay thought darkly, and the guard standing directly behind Ramsay, too afraid to meet his gaze, opened his mouth to speak, but clamped it shut when Ramsay lifted a finger to his lips, signaling the other man to shut the fuck up if he valued keeping his tongue. Ramsay slowly rose from his spot on the stairwell and stepped back in the shadows to avoid being seen, his black jerkin and doublet blending into the darkness. The perfect cover to observe and listen without being detected.

His attention was now solely fixated on the two bastards in front of him as they talked, thinking themselves to be alone, save for their third companion.

"I have to admit," the taller of the two, and the more handsome of the lot was saying, "the Stark girl is really quite pretty. She's got a cute little nose, and though she would look much prettier if she smiled, she's easily the most beautiful woman in all of the seven kingdoms."

"Is that so?" the shorter one asked, sounding bored and thoroughly disinterested. Ramsay felt a muscle in both his jaw and behind his right eyelid twitch involuntarily and he felt his hands ball into fists at his sides. He moved to stand up, and he was rather dismayed when the guards did not notice his looming shadow behind them. He waited to see if they would notice, and when they didn't, he grew even angrier. The guards continued speak, oblivious to Ramsay's presence behind them.

"Just you watch, Wes, I'm going to court her. You'll see."

"Really?" His friend did not sound at all convinced.

The taller guard nodded. "I'm going to steal a kiss. It's going to be easy. I'll corner her one of these days, and maybe even sneak into her cloister room one night while she's asleep—"

Ramsay had heard enough. Fires of fury and hatred were smoldering in the dark narrowed eyes as he weighed the pros and cons of the various and creative means available to him for exacting revenge. Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of unwanted violence. It was like a volcano erupting; fury sweeping off him like ferocious waves. The wrath consumed like, engulfing his moralities, and destroying the boundaries of loyalty.

"HOW DARE YOU!" he yelled.

Both guards whirled around at the exact same time, and their faces drained of color. Ramsay would have laughed at the comical expressions on their faces were he not feeling an emotion that felt like it was burning his insides. It took him a moment to realize it was rage. "Wh—what?" the guard who had spoken spluttered, but didn't have a chance to speak, as Ramsay grabbed the guard by the sleeve of his tunic and slammed against the pillar.

Only one of them would get to walk away from Ramsay's temper—or perhaps neither. Ramsay didn't give a goddamn if it was his wedding night or not. He could not—would not—allow these _fools_ to speak of Sansa Stark in what he believed were unspeakable terms. "I have a message for you," he hissed as a low warning, relishing the fear in the younger guard's eyes. "From…Sansa…"

A bald-faced lie, but if Ramsay wanted to see her again, he thought some deception was justified here. The guard's voice came back at him. The guard's voice, though fearful, was also quite tight with rage. "Wh—what?"

"It's complicated, Frederic. It _is_ Frederic, isn't it?" added Ramsay nonchalantly as he gave the guard a quick once-over. "I recognize you. You're Captain Bonheur's cousin, aren't you? I'm sure he would be delighted to hear how you treat women. Maybe I'll make a point to tell him."

Ramsay knew as he spoke the words, they had hit their mark. He had him now. Ramsay could feel the heat of temper rising within Frederic de Marten. He wanted the supposed 'message' from Sansa Stark, but his urge to either fight or flight was rising.

In that moment of self-conflict, Ramsay's gaze drifted lazily towards the knife clutched firmly in Frederic's grasp and swiftly plucked it from his fingers and handed it off to the guard that stood behind him. His advantage was now lost.

Ramsay had taken down more and better in fair fights and Frederic knew it. Now he had a new emotion in his green eyes—fear. He pointed a shaking finger in Ramsay's face. "You can't do this!"

"I can, I am!" Ramsay shouted; all composure momentarily forgotten. "You cretinous little fucking worm," snarled Ramsay through clenched teeth, feeling what little color was left in his face drain as he glowered at the guard. "You do not deserve to speak her name, let alone even think of her in such terms."

Here, he leaned in closer, so the tip of his nose was practically touching the guard's, who cringed at the look of rage in the lord's eyes. "Here is what I suggest you do, and I _really_ suggest you follow my advice, because if you don't, it won't bode well for you, my _friend_ ," he growled. "Quit this position. Right now, because if I _ever_ find you anywhere near my bride again, I'll send my hounds after you, let them feast on your flesh, and then I'll slit your goddamned throat and feed whatever bits of you I don't decide to cut off one by one to my hounds. You are…quite grateful tonight is my wedding night, Ser Frederic, for I am feeling…rather generous and am allowing you this one chance. Stay away from Sansa Stark if you value your cock still in its place, boy," he growled. "GO!"

Satisfied at the horrified expression on the guard's face, he let out a warning growl from the back of his throat and effectively released the guard.

Both he and the guard watched as the guards scrambled to their feet and wasted no time in making a beeline right for Winterfell's front doors.

Ramsay bared his teeth, stifling a low growl, just as a low, lazy clap reached his eardrums. "Seven hells," he cursed under his breath and whirled around.

His lord father stood there, leaning against the wall of the corridor, a bemused expression on his face. "Bravo. That might be the first time I think I've ever seen you lose control over a woman like that. It would seem your little bride is having quite the effect on you at last, it would seem, I take it. What on earth did that one do?" he snorted, a look of amusement twinkling in his blue eyes, though it did nothing to warm the cold expression with which he regarded his bastard son.

Ramsay swallowed, hoping his face remained set to 'casual indifference.'

"He merely spoke in such a manner which displeased me, Father," he growled, still keeping his hands balled into a fist at his sides. He turned to Lord Roose, who was looking refined in a dark crimson red doublet, his hands clasped behind his back, before returning his attention to the third guard, who had been rendered mute, his face ashen, beads of sweat forming on his brow, speechless.

Lord Roose sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, as though fighting off a splitting headache. "Yes, what is it?"

The guard swallowed nervously and took several paces backwards cautiously, "Ah, well," he began hesitantly. "F—forgive me, milords, b—but…it's the girl."

Ramsay froze, feeling his blood turn to ice and his teeth clenching in anger.

"What about Lady Stark?" he growled, feeling his temper swell even more.

The guard cast his gaze downward, refusing to meet either of his lord's eyes.

"She err…ah, well, f—forgive me, milords, b-but we cannot find Lady Sansa. She…she's nowhere in Winterfell, milord. She's… gone," the guard finished weakly, clenching his eyes shut and preparing for the inevitable outburst that he knew would send him over the edge. "She's escaped. I—I don't know how…"

The guard flinched and kept his eyes shut as Ramsay's holler reverberated in his ears like a clap of thunder, such was his rage. It was a roar of pure anger. "WHAT?" roared Ramsay, letting out a guttural growl that everyone was certain they heard it for miles. Every word that Lord Roose and the guard tried to offer to calm him only stung, feeling the fire that burned within his chest.

Every breath felt like his last, every breath made him ache for it to be the last. His cries of rage went unregarded, contained by the walls of his body. His screams echoed in his head filling the silence with burning flames of self-loathing. Every violated phrase was like fire on oil, his hands began to clench, and his jaw rooted. He exploded with anger at last. "What do you mean, 'she's gone?' Who was on duty today? Who in the seven hells let her _escape_? _You_?" he growled, unaware of Roose coming over and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.

"We will find her, Lord Ramsay," came Lord Roose's calculating tone.

Angrily, Ramsay violently shirked away from his lord father's touch, his cold gaze fixated upon the guards. "ANSWER ME! WAS IT YOU?" he roared, beside himself.

"Y—yes, milord, b—but…" The guard let out a horrible yell of anguish as Ramsay threw his body weight behind the fist that edged closer to his face, the guard's pitiful attempt to protect himself from Ramsay's wrath, it hit his jaw with such force blood pooled into his mouth.

Pain erupted from the point of impact. With his own two hands, Ramsay grasped his head in his hands and brought his knee cap up to his nose, there was a blunt crack and Ramsay released the oaf's dark haired head. Crimson leaked from both his nostrils and his nose was twisted right. He drew his fist back again and it ploughed into his stomach. His guts smashed together, blood vessels bursting.

Ramsay repaid this little defensive act by punching his jaw, his fist collided with all his body weight. Ramsay continued this battering until he fell to the floor. The guard's chest gently rose and sank with each shallow breath he drew in, choking and gurgling on a pool of blood that had gathered in his mouth.

Panting heavily, he withdrew his knife from the sheath he wore around his waist, twisting it in the dim light of the corridor as if it could slice up the rays of the sun itself, his seething expression exaggerated by the dark shadows around his eyes. Though rust had set in on the handle and blade it was strong, jagged.

Sansa had dared to try to defy and reject him for the last time. Ramsay could see his bride already in a pool of blood and his face split into a grin that arced in a sickly way, never making it to his almost sunken in and haunted icy-blue eyes.

"Gentlemen," he growled, sheathing his dagger, and straightening his black leather jerking, running his blood-stained fingers through his mop of dark hair.

The other guards who had been altered to the man's screams remained mute, eyes downcast at Lord Ramsay and Roose's boots, too afraid to move.

He kicked aside the fallen guard's limp form with the tip of his black boot and spat at the man's face.

"Feed this piece of shit to my hounds. Mustn't waste the good meat. They'll need a little snack for what comes next. This evening," Ramsay grinned, clasping his hands behind his back, "has just gotten most interesting. T'is my wedding night and it would seem my precious little _bride_ has decided to play a game of hide and seek. Tell Reek to ready my horse and supplies. She wants to hide, I'll seek her. Gentlemen…let us hunt my bride."


	16. Brienne

**Brienne**

While not exactly how she would have chosen to keep her word to Lady Catelyn, Brienne of Tarth was grateful, at the very least, that she was able to keep her word to Sansa Stark. Podrick trailed close behind at her heels, his gaze nervously darting to and from, as though expecting one of the Bolton hounds or men to jump out from the thick brush and attack. Which was exactly what Brienne was counting on. The candle in the sill had been lit, and she had met Lady Stark with a man known only as Reek, and was a godawful assault on the senses, both in eyes and nose.

The boy was a wreck, like the gods hadn't taken pity on whatever trials or hardships he'd suffered and was in dire need of a hot long bath.

The one called Reek had led Sansa through the crypts, though not without much convincing on Sansa's part for the damaged man to help her. He had at last relented, and was hesitant to flee with them, but Sansa had practically begged for him to come, claiming she needed him.

The hounds of Lord Ramsay's weren't far behind, as the sky plunged into an ominous darkness, awakening predatory creatures out of their lairs. Brienne jumped as a distant bloodcurdling howl made the hairs on the backs of her neck stand on end and she mumbled a choice curse under her breath, cursing herself to the seven hells for showing fear.

Brienne watched anxiously as the forest surrounding the four of them, their fourth companion in the party an archer of Bolton's, a young man seemingly around Sansa's age who called himself Ser Aleyn and claimed to be unmatched with a bow and arrow. Brienne supposed she'd find out soon enough. The introductions had been tense between them.

Brienne could tell just by one look in the bowman's eyes that the younger man did not fully trust Brienne, but then again, it worked both ways. Something about the young man felt rather off, disconnecting.

Though what exactly it was, Brienne couldn't put her finger on it.

Sansa had assured Brienne and Podrick, and to a lesser extent, Reek, that they could trust Ser Aleyn, that the man considered himself a friend, though it did not escape Brienne's attention the venomous glowers he shot the boy who called himself Reek and lived up to that nickname.

Brienne would have been tempted to ask for the history between those two and why there was no love lost among them, but now wasn't the time. _Get Lady Sansa to safety_ , her conscience scolded her. _And fast_.

She had flinched as the knight's gaze traveled upwards, resting on her face, during which Brienne had promptly looked away. The woman knew all too well what she was. Just shy over six feet, Brienne was tall, muscular, rather flat-chested, and ungainly. Her straw colored hair was shoulder length and quite brittle, her mouth wide and lips pink and thin.

Her nose looked as though it had been broken more than once (which it had.) The only redeeming feature of Brienne of Tarth was her blue eyes. Her eyes were fire in water if you can imagine such a thing. They were passion in ice. So even on their first meeting Sansa knew that if Brienne of Tarth kept her oath to her, as she had tried to do for her mother, she'd be a friend for life, never dominating nor submitting, but a companion who walks freely alongside. And that she was and more.

She was, after all, helping Sansa flee Winterfell without asking an endless bout of questions as to the reasons why, which she felt did not warrant or need an explanation. The fact that Ramsay was a monster should have been good enough for her. Aleyn trailed close behind, looking upset the closer the hounds got as they trudged through the wood. The path at their feet faded as it led into the darkness of the woods yet follow it, they all had to for the sake of Sansa Stark.

Somewhere in there was a way out if they could just make it to the other side. Tree branches stretched out in front of the escape party, forming a cavern of distorted limbs that seemed to try to reach out and grasp at Brienne's flesh, what little of it wasn't protected by her armor.

A vile pain spread throughout Brienne's chest like a deadly infection and her lungs beseeches her to stop walking, as did her legs. Her knees felt like mush after running constantly for hours and now she gulped selfish breaths of air. Helpless, she encouraged the group to keep walking, her feet dragging noisily on the carpet of lifeless leaves and snow beneath their boots. Each step forward felt like it triggered a rush of pain in Brienne of Tarth's chest.

In spite of her exhausted and somewhat feeble condition, though she would never dare admit it aloud, her slightly swollen lips curled into a smile as the realization that she had helped Lady Catelyn's eldest daughter to escape finally struck her. Brienne felt smug at her little victory. She, no _they_ had really made it. Sansa Stark was free from the filthy clutches of the wretched Bolton family. She still had forgotten how some of Roose's men had dressed in that hideous pink dress and forced her into the bear pit with a wooden sword. They would make for the road, and perhaps escape in a boat.

She hoped that Lady Sansa Stark would find for herself a new home. A home that would thrive, breathing without restrictions. She hoped.

However, she knew more than anything, what resided in Sansa Stark's heart was the fear of everything being forcefully taken away from her still resided deep within, festering like an old wound left to rot there.

The brutal methods of the Bolton men toyed with the lives of innocent people for the sake of ruling a land that was not theirs by right.

Lords Roose and Ramsay wanted to conquer the entire North, and any prisoner that resisted or attempted to escape were tortured, some even killed, and Brienne felt a chill of fear travel down her spine at that pleasant thought. She momentarily wondered what Lord Ramsay would do to Sansa if the men and that pack of hounds were to catch up to them.

Ramsay was a man blinded by his lust for power, ruthless and merciless. Sansa Stark had been lucky to escape in the crypts with Reek.

Brienne felt her blonde thin brows furrow into a frown as her sword hand constantly hovered over the hilt of Oathkeeper as she scoured the woods. No sign of Lord Bolton's scouts that she could see or detect, but that did not mean that they were not there. Stepping into the woods robbed you of one sense and heightened all others. It was disorienting to be almost blinded but given the ears and eyes of a wolf. Even the soft susurration of the branches felt heavy to Brienne of Tarth's sharp eyes.

Their senses of smell were heightened, the loam in the earth and the decomposing leaves made the atmosphere close and thick, suffocating.

The blackness of the forest ahead of the group nurtured an eerie sense of claustrophobia inside you, even though the woodlands stretched unbroken for miles. The narrow path, which was made uneven by the knotted roots that crossed it, branched out at random intervals.

There was no map for the group to follow, but even if there had been, the perpetual dark would have prevented Brienne and company from using it. Only the songs of the elders, it was rumored, would take you through. That's why the children of Winterfell learned to sing them every night before bed and then again in the morrow after breaking their fast. They were the only way to navigate, and Brienne watched, almost mesmerized as Lady Stark hummed a low but lovely tune under her breath, seemingly taking the lead in guiding them all out of the forest.

"Hurry," whispered Brienne urgently, her gloved hand coming up to grip onto Oathkeeper's hilt tightly. "We cannot delay, Lady Sansa."

Sansa Stark had been staring up at a tree, seemingly lost in thought and was jolted out of her thoughts as she felt the stronger woman's hand on the small of her back, nudging her towards the front of the dirt path.

Lady Stark swallowed nervously and gave the tiniest of nods, signaling to Brienne that she understood. "Thank you, Lady Brienne."

Brienne blushed, feeling the heat speckle along her cheeks. "I am no lady, milady," she murmured, airily brushing away Lady Catelyn's daughter's comment with a curt wave of her hand. "I made a promise."

"And you are keeping that promise," Sansa answered steadily as they walked at a hurried pace, glancing sideways, and having to crane her neck upwards in order to meet Brienne of Tarth's blue eyes with her own. "My mother would be— _is_ —quite proud of you, Brienne of Tarth. If we should survive this, I should see you knighted for your efforts, yes?"

Brienne swallowed back the lump forming in her throat, unable to find the words of gratitude she so desperately wished she could say.

"I…thank you, milady, but let us concentrate first on getting you to safety," was all she managed to say when she had regained control of her voice. "We cannot delay, and the longer we linger here, we risk being discovered. _Go_ ," Brienne urged, taking even longer strides than before.

Sansa nodded, wrapping the hood of her brown linen traveling robe over her face to conceal her features, not that it would do her much good.

For whom else would be wandering about these woods in the middle of winter in the North? Probably only fugitives up to no good, that's who. At _that_ pleasant thought, Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown, and this gesture did not go unnoticed by Brienne. "Hurry, milady."

Sansa Stark gave a curt nod and quickened her pace, having to jog slightly to catch up to Brienne, with Pod and Reek and Ser Aleyn bringing up the rear. Brienne found herself wondering what on earth would possess a man like Ramsay Bolton to allow his name to be slandered with such a horrible reputation, and she wondered if the rumors were as bad as she and Podrick had heard in the taverns.

How the monster himself was so bloody violent, he would snap your neck if you so much as looked at him in a manner that displeased him, and that was only after he had flayed the skin and meat from your bones.

But Lady Stark, Brienne could sense, knew the truth of him, for she was, after all, still betrothed and due to be married to the bastard.

Sansa had not divulged much, but Brienne knew that she had looked into the monster's eyes, and more, besides. The blonde-haired warrior let out a haggard sigh and pondered her options. She knew they were in danger as long as they lingered here out in the open woods with nowhere to go, no plan in mind. If they were to go back the way they came and circle back around, Bolton's men and the dogs would find her.

But if they stayed here, they were as good as dead, so Brienne knew they only had two options. Up or down. Downward to the river and hope they could find a boat, and if that didn't work, they'd swim across.

Wading knee deep in frigid cold water and possibly catching their death of a chill was not a prospect that appealed to either Sansa or Brienne and made both women scrunch their noses in disgust.

Up, however, towards the hills, or even up in the trees if it came to that, was technically faster than down. Sansa let out a tiny squeak as another baying howl rent the otherwise silent woodland air. They were close.

"I—I do not think I can continue," Sansa Stark breathed, her blue eyes wide and round with shock, pivoting on her heel and moving as if to turn away. "What I have asked of you all is an entirely selfish thought."

Brienne stared, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing. She bit the inside of her cheek and felt her fingers begin to twitch, itching to draw her sword. She watched as the Stark girl fidgeted with the gold wedding band she wore on her left hand and bit her bottom lip in a pout.

Whatever was weighing on Lady Stark's mind was troubling her greatly. Her mind pitted against itself, seemingly weighing the pros and cons. At last, thought it seemed to take her ages, Sansa found her voice.

"I cannot remain out here." Though her voice shook, it was laced with a surge of courage and determination that caused Brienne's heart to give a painful lurch. How very much like her mother Sansa Stark sounded in this moment. "I have endangered each and every one of you by asking this of you, and for me to risk your lives and innocent blood spilt on my behalf, simply because I wish to escape a marriage I do not want, is completely and utterly selfish of me. I cannot— _will not_ —live with your blood on mine hands. I have to go back, Brienne, Aleyn," she whispered.

Sansa Stark bit her bottom lip and painfully wrung her hands together in agitation, the sharpness of her nails hard enough to pierce the skin.

Brienne opened her mouth and was about to comment on how ridiculous she was being, and ask Lady Stark if she was touched in the head, when the filthy rat who looked like he'd spawned out of the slums spoke up, sounding indignant and highly offended by Lady Stark's words.

"Are you _mad_ , milady? Are you perhaps _short_ of a _marble_?" he spluttered, his first whole sentence ever since arriving at the edge of the crypt's entrances with Lady Sansa.

But Lady Stark shook her head no. "No, Theon," she whispered softly. "Perhaps for the first time in my life, I am thinking quite straight. This is something I must do on my own. Let me deal with whatever punishment Ramsay seeks to enact, for this was my idea and mine alone. Not yours."

Ser Aleyn was the first to break the stunned silence, taking a step forward as though his body had come alive after a wash of cold. "What then would you have us do, milady? If your lord husband to be catches us out here with you, he should hang us all for treason and not think twice."

"I know that," Sansa nodded grimly, her lips pursed into a thin line. She turned her head away sharply for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. "I will go back alone," she announced, her voice faltering only slightly as her bravery and resolve seemed to teeter as she swayed.

No doubt the stress and taxation of what she was considering was catching up to her, and she would have fallen had the one called Reek not shot out a strong arm to catch her. Brienne half expected the Lady of Winterfell to recoil her nose in disgust at being manhandled by someone who smelled as though they'd not bathed in an entire year, but she did not. "Th—thank you, Theon," she whispered, sounding relieved.

"Well?" Pod pressed, finally breaking his silence, heaving as he tried to catch his breath, one hand clasped to his side. "What should we do, milady?"

"You will go on without me. I shall tell my betrothed that I was captured by a band of brigades and could not see their faces, for they had covered my head with a cloth," she announced, though it sounded to Brienne like her voice lacked the conviction of the argument she really wanted to make. "It is the best possible explanation I can think of."

A slight sheen of sweat had begun to form on her brow, and there was no mistaking the skittish behavior Lady Sansa was starting to exhibit. Brienne of Tarth liked to think she knew her well. She knew that Sansa was beginning to regret coming here.

Through the eerie silence and the darkness came the glow of two yellow eyes, like sallow lamplight eight feet off the ground. They moved with a slight sway, as if the unseen body prowled like a big cat or a huge, hulking dog. The entire party froze, rooted to their spots, unable to move at all.

The eyes, however, did not in fact, freeze. Instead, they moved, following Brienne of Tarth's and Lady Sansa's movements with slow acceleration as the pair of eyes crept closer.

"Brienne…" whisper-hissed Sansa through clenched teeth, her eyes wildly darting around the woods, looking for a way out, or perhaps an oversized fallen tree limb that they could use as a weapon, a means of self-defense.

Brienne opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech. The group watched as the gentle snapping of twigs and crunch of leaves suggested perhaps that a deer or rabbit was moving in the black shadows of the forest edge near the cemetery.

Yet the beast was neither. Oh, it was a dog all right, but nothing like they had ever seen. It was three hundred and forty pounds of dense muscle, claws, and fangs. This behemoth had acquired the ability to move with more stealth over the past half century, it found that with this technique the necessity for chasing was reduced.

Once in position, the only noises coming from this huge, hulking beast were the excessive panting brought on by the anticipation of fresh meat, its first real meal in about five years, and the steady drip of the gelatinous saliva onto the mud. As the scent of the humans wafted to his oversized nostrils, he made the noise of a wounded dog, whimpering, pitiful. Sansa's heart lurched, and she greatly fought the urge to step forward and try to comfort the beast.

One glance over at Ser Aleyn was more than enough. He gave a curt shake of his head no, an arm held out in front of Lady Sansa, as though he thought that would be enough to ward off the creature's attack. His hand had stretched around to his back, wherein he wore his quiver with his bow and arrows, though Sansa and Brienne knew just as well as he did, the slightest twitch, any mad dash made to reach for his weapon, and this monstrous beast would become provoked and would attack.

The Beast of Ramsay's made a noise that elicited a startled jump from both Sansa and Brienne, not having anticipated the noise.

A soft yelp. A whimper. These types of noises drew the other four-legged creatures of the Alpha's pack closer every single time, almost without fail. Then, the beast would launch forward with such rapid speed, the snatched victims often had no time to cry out or call for help, they just…vanished.

If their friends were foolish enough to search for the poor sods, then so much the better. It would become a feast for these hell hounds of Ramsay's, these canines, its yellow eyes glinting dangerously in the moonlight. The monster preferred to toy with its food rather than killing it fast. The first strike was with a poisoned claw to slow the reaction time of his meal, after that, it was play time.

The 'meal' would be allowed the chance to run, to feel the pounding of their own heart just a few more times and then the dogs would sink their teeth into their necks—just deep enough to let them bleed out slow before feasting. The creature drew back its head and howled.

That was more than enough.

"Lady Stark, run!" Ser Aleyn urged, violently shoving Sansa Stark backwards, towards the direction of the clearing. "Make for the other side of the godswoods, maybe we can lose it!" he shouted, taking Sansa's hand, and pulling her forward into a run.

Her breathing came in small spurts, hot and nervous, as the pair bolted for the forest again, the baying howls of the pack of Ramsay's vicious hell hounds, all dozens of them, right behind them. At her sides, pale fingers curled into sweaty fists, swinging forward as if it would make her run faster.

"I…I think they found us, Ser Aleyn!" she panted, gasping for breath.

"Who _cares_?" he retorted, sounding almost angry with Sansa, shoving her forward rather violently, a move which normally would have gotten her blood boiling, but Sansa knew it was meant as a gesture of protectiveness, making sure she had a good chance to get away before thinking of saving himself. "Just run!"

Sansa nodded her agreement, throwing herself forward with even greater abandon.

Her heart and lungs were pumping, but the air didn't seem to be enough as she sprinted forward, panic trembling in her exhausted limbs. Her blue eyes widened, breathing ragged and harsh. Her hands trembled at her sides and she jammed her fist into her mouth to stifle her scream of fear. She'd heard the creature coming, the pounding susurration of its footsteps, like a threatening whisper almost. It was incredible to her how light it moved.

 _Maybe it really is a monster_ , she thought wildly. It didn't seem to come from any direction, just a sound that encapsulated her inside her cocoon of despair and hopelessness as they hid behind the trunk of a large oak tree. They probably weren't going to make it out of this alive.

Sansa's legs were frozen into place, so following Reek and Aleyn's lead as best she could, she crouched into a crawl and dragged herself towards the edge of the woods, gasping. Sansa clawed at the forest ground with bitten nails, and her jaw dropped open in a silent scream of horror as her eyes rested on the beast's massive black paw and claws, standing in front of her.

The thing lunged at her, a dark shape of matted fur that smelled of wet dog and blood latching onto her back. She struck the ground, hard, and lay there, convulsing and twitching. Ser Aleyn's screams were ringing in her eardrums, as well as the sound of a crossbow being fired, the arrow very narrowly missing the tip of her earlobe as it whizzed past her ear. From the darkness, came the sound of heavy limbs being dragged across the forest floor.

Whatever it was, it was massive. She blearily lifted her head and tried to focus her gaze a few feet in front of herself. "Brienne? Ser Aleyn? Theon…" she whimpered.

Every once in a while, would come a cracking noise like bone on wood, or at least, that's what Sansa's overactive imagination perceived it to be—a thick skull crashing into a trunk. She prayed to the gods or whoever was up there that it wasn't any of her friends'. This beast was neither lithe, nor graceful.

Sansa let out a scream as the creature towered over her limp form on the ground and she winced, turning her chin sharply as a drop of the dog's saliva fell onto her cheek. She clenched her eyes shut, letting out a whimper of fear. A string of curses unraveled from her tongue, like yarn unfurling, as the monstrous dog advanced. Its fur was matted and tangled, the creature huge and grotesque with mattered fur and huge twisting paws. The contorted figure seemed to eclipse the moon itself with how big it was. Roughly the size of a small pony, this one towering over her, ready to eat her bones.

"Nice dog, good boy," whimpered Sansa as it let out a low growl.

"Just...calm down, a-and please don't eat us. We don't taste very good..." This dog was anything _but_ a good boy, as it hunched on its shoulders, shackles raised, yellow teeth bared and snarling, poising to attack Sansa. Every step it took rattled Sansa's bones and struck her heart.

She tried to dodge a swing from its massive paws, but it struck her side and she tumbled into the dirt. She could hear nothing. All was silenced. Ser Aleyn and Theon's screams, the low guttural growls of the leader of the hounds and its pack members.

All Sansa could do was feel. Feel the cold ground pressed against her form, the heat from the pain, and the rhythm of the drum of her heartbeat that would soon signal her end. She looked upwards, trying to look at Brienne or Ser Aleyn, but her heart lurched to the pit of her stomach as the towering form of her lord husband loomed over her on husband, a victorious smile on his face. Sansa closed her eyes and prepared to feel a searing pain, her very last.

Sansa barely stifled a surprised gasp of pain as she felt something hard come down on the back of her skull, followed by an immense warmth and something wet and sticky felt like it trickled down her neck. She was barely aware of being lifted in a pair of strong arms, Ramsay's, as her heartbeats pounded loudly against her chest, echoing in her eardrums, alongside her fading, pitiful pleas for help, for his mercy.

If Ramsay heard her or paid attention to his future wife's pleas, he chose to ignore it as the feeling in Sansa Stark's body drained away until all was black, and her last thought was that she hoped Ser Aleyn, Brienne, Pod, and Theon had all found a place to hide and made it to safety. She was going to have to deal with Lord Ramsay on her own.

She had run, and he had caught her, just like hide and seek, and now…

There was nowhere to run…


	17. Sansa

**Sansa**

Sansa awoke blearily to the frigid cold of an unfamiliar chamber that smelled horribly of mold, water, and something coppery, like…like blood. The time felt like it passed slowly and then stopped.

There was a horrible tightness in her throat, her lungs feeling like they were sagging instead of contracting for the next breath.

Wherever she was, it was dark, with only one sound to be heard, the sound of her own pulse throbbing in her ears. A narrow stream of light gracefully maneuvered through the room, and a dark shadow quickly followed. She was scared.

Sansa held her breath, daring not to make a sound. Each second seemed to last an eternity as she lay peacefully still, listening to the footsteps of the intruder in her room, which had muted the pounding of her pulse. Her nose filled with the musty scent of the room and in the almost blackness, her eyes strained for the dark figure.

She needed air to return to her lungs, but by the light of the seven, the exertion only brought on even more breathlessness, like the air in her chambers around her were devoid of oxygen. Her ribs heaved up and down, but no benefit came to her, only dizziness, and…and…she could have sworn she felt his hand on her thigh earlier, in her sleep...

"Who—who brought me here?" Sansa whispered hoarsely.

"I did," answered a cold voice from in front of her, shrouded in the shadows, though there was no mistaking that voice. Sansa let out a terrified squeak and jumped at the noise. Ramsay Bolton. There was no mistaking that wild pair of glacier blue eyes, mere pinpricks, watching her from the shadows.

She swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat. Sansa wondered why he was here with her, if he was finally going to claim her for himself, now that he had finally got her alone when she was feeling at her weakest, feverish, everything ached, and vulnerable.

The figure moved, still remaining shrouded in the shadows, and for whatever reason, Sansa could not help but feel like either Ramsay was afraid of her (which she doubted) or he was merely doing this to intimidate her as some sick and twisted form of psychological punishment for daring to try to escape on the night of their wedding.

Probably the latter, and Sansa hated to admit to herself that it was working. He seemed to slink in the shadows, almost like that of a snake, and she gulped.

From the darkness stepped Ramsay, and at first, his face was obscured by the dim moonlight but then he shuffled forwards and the feeble light from the moon streaming in front of the window was enough to illuminate her future lord husband's features. That bluish hue made him all the paler, but it was clear he was tired, and his expression angry.

Ramsay turned slowly to Sansa, unsmiling, and gestured towards the elaborate room Sansa now found herself in.

When she glanced down at the covers of the bed she was laying in, she was covered with the softest goose feather down blanket she had ever felt in her entire life so far.

"Do you like it?" he asked, gesturing towards the room with a wide flourish. His voice was almost…childlike, which gave Sansa pause.

What exactly was she dealing with here? Ineptitude for social graces?

Clearly, her future lord husband was not right in the head, and if Sansa wanted to survive for yet another night, she was going to have to play along. "I—yes," Sansa whispered feebly. "I—I do, milord Bolton…"

"Good." He nodded, though he did not look at her. "I want you to be happy." At his last word, he faltered in his resolved but recovered.

"You ran from me, Lady Stark," Ramsay growled. "For that, Sansa…" He let the syllables of her name roll off his tongue, and Sansa felt a tremor of fear go down her back. She hated this.

What exactly did Ramsay want with her? What if he had brought her here to defile her body, to finish what he had tried to start in the library's corridor a few nights ago?

If he hurt her, tortured her, killed her? Would anybody in Winterfell even find her body once he had his fill of her and disposed of her remains?

He regarded the young redhead with something akin to amusement in his cold blue eyes. Sansa flinched and stared at the young man's eyes, which had grown almost unnaturally wide and round.

Almost as if the Bastard of Bolton could sense her thoughts, he grinned and ran a hand through his tuft of dark wavy hair. "No one who's ever been in this room with me has lived to speak of it, Sansa."

When his voice rose an octave, Ramsay seemed to lose all traces of seriousness.

"You would have been next, which would only be appropriate, given that you tried to run away from me," he growled, turning serious for a moment, and looking away from her, "But…." His voice trailed off.

Sansa wasn't sure if she wanted to know what 'but' meant in this case. She gulped nervously and stared up Lord Ramsay Bolton, this monster.

Ramsay, at least in this dim light, was far too skinny, like he hadn't eaten in a couple of days, and for all she knew of the man, he hadn't.

Sansa's mind was flooded of images of her future husband suffering a grim death, and the snort of amusement escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she immediately regretted it as she saw Ramsay's head whiplash sharply upwards, his blue eyes narrowing and becoming slits.

"You think this is funny, Sansa," Ramsay breathed, his breathing rate increasing as he moved to stand next to her, and Sansa drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs and held it, waiting with bated breath and trying to control the tremors as he reached up a strong hand and stroked the pale column that was the hollow of her neck. "Well, my darling, I am afraid it's not going to be funny for much longer, you see. You ran away. The truth is not always an easy thing to swallow, Sansa Stark. I understand how…hard this must be for all of you, to be home in a place that does not feel like home, forced into a marriage that you do not want." Ramsay sounded like he was feigning concern for her condition.

Sansa frowned. She could detect no hint of malice or deceit in his tone, and this further confused. What in seven hells did he want, then?

The pounding in her head ached and throbbed, and Sansa quite felt like its prisoner, helpless in her cage of pain, unable to think of anything but the pain. She was blinded with flashing colorful spots and craved the darkness of her chambers, which to her dismay, someone, probably one of the maids, had let what little moonlight there was into the room by drawing open the curtains back.

Her pains throbbed so violently around her skull that she wondered why it didn't just crack open already, then.

Whenever she was around her future husband, it was always the same. A crushing pain just on one side of her head that came and went in a pattern, only providing her with some small semblance of relief whenever Ramsay Bolton left the room.

One of her eyes would water on the painful side and her nose felt like it would run. Or maybe that was her tears. She didn't know. She hated it.

A flash of black appeared out of the corner of her eyes and Sansa felt her head whiplash sharply to the right.

_Ramsay!_ She felt her lips part slightly in a silent scream, feeling her stomach lurched and she bolted upright, quickly realizing that was a mistake as she tasted the bile coating the back of her head.

Ramsay sat next to her bedside, back up against the rest of his chair as he poked her side with his finger and broke into a charming white smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Sansa gulped nervously and repressed a shudder.

"How long have you…have you been sitting there?' she whispered, moving to gingerly pull his hand away from her thigh, and instead she found her hands drift towards the scratchy woolen blanket, where her fingers curled into a protective fist around the thick thing, the only barrier between her and Ramsay's likely assault of her body, which she wouldn't put it past him to try, given the fuming look in his eyes.

She swallowed as his blue eyes narrowed. Sansa knew what he was thinking. Here she was. His. Her beauty, her flaming red locks like winter fire.

Sansa knew Ramsay had been expecting her to be screaming and crying at the top of her lungs, begging for someone to come to her aid, to save her from the Bastard of Bolton. But no one was coming.

Ramsay shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. Sansa stared, fixated on his blue eyes. She knew she wasn't going to get the chance to be brave this time. She would be afraid of him one way or the other before the night was out. Whether or not they would still be married tonight for sure, only her future lord husband knew the answer.

"You can scream if you want," he drawled lazily, not relinquishing his grip on her thigh on top of the blanket. "But I've ordered no one to come check on you, milady," he said, his tone sounding clipped, hard.

Sansa found herself unable to avert her gaze from Ramsay's and she jumped as a kindling crackled in the lit hearth in the fireplace across the room. She flinched and guilty turned towards it to look.

One glance over at Ramsay and down at his hand confirmed her suspicions. The edges of his fingers were covered in soot. Dirty. "Y- _you_ lit that fire, milord?"

Ramsay rolled his eyes and scoffed, though he finally removed his free hand from her thigh and brushed them on his simple black linen shirt, which hung open slightly to reveal the hollow column of his throat.

Sansa stared, not even caring that she was staring. However evil the man sitting next to her might be, there was no point in trying to deny that he was a handsome man. She bit her lip and waited for him to speak.

"Yes." Sansa flinched at the coldness of Ramsay's simple response.

"But…why? Could not have one of the maids done it? You did not need to trouble yourself, Lord Bolton," Sansa whispered meekly. "Why?"

Ramsay had seemingly chosen silence as a response, and this greatly unnerved her. How was she to know what it was that he wanted of her now and what he was going to do to her if he wouldn't even talk to her?

_Is that his game? Is that it?_ Sansa wondered, and shuddered as he offered his bride a seemingly genuine smile, kind and almost…gentle.

"Because I did not trust Maester Wolkan to care for you in the way that you... _deserve_." His voice, while kind, had a slight edge to it. One she recognized.

Though Sansa was not fooled. She knew the truth about Ramsay. It was a miracle she opened her voice to speak, and nothing came out but a tiny, breathy squeak as she looked around for any sign of Hilda or any of the other maids. "Help," she whispered, glancing around for an escape.

But it was as Ramsay had just said. No one was coming to help her.

His wolfish, predatory grin merely widened, and she could not help but feel an enormous sense of fear. It paralyzed Sansa, rendered her frozen to her spot, unable to bolt from her bed and make for her front door.

"No one's coming for you, Lady Stark. It's just you and me. I think we should have a conversation, now that we're married, you and I, yes?"

His words chilled her and turned her blood to ice. _Married_? But…she hadn't been awake.

Had the ceremony somehow commenced while she'd been unconscious for only the gods knew how long she had been out?

Trembling, she lifted her left hand to study it and even she could not help but to admire the sheen of the simple yellow gold band that rested on her ring finger.

Fuming, feeling her muscles in her jaw lock up and tighten, she turned towards the man whom she knew now to be married to. For better or worse, Lady Sansa Stark was now wedded to Ramsay Bolton.

" _Why_? H-how could your lord father allow this, milord? I—I wasn't even awake. What have you done? What did you do to me? Did you…" she demanded, not even caring if he heard the trembling.

Her voice trailed off as she fought back tears, and to her surprise, he shook his head. She felt her shoulders sag with relief that he hadn't gone that far.

Though judging by the look in his eyes, Sansa liked to think she knew him well enough by now to know that for that, he wanted her awake and alert to feel it. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, blinking back tears. Ramsay spoke up, his voice surprisingly quiet, though taught with rage.

"To ensure that you did not attempt to leave me again, beloved," he growled. He leaned forward in his chair slightly, and Sansa automatically recoiled and scooted towards the other side of the bed, flinching and letting out a pained gasp as Ramsay's arm shot outright, effectively wrenching her arms above her head and pinning them to her pillow. Sansa recoiled and clenched her eyes shut. She could smell the wine wafting off his breath. He had been drinking. Again.

When she reluctantly opened her eyes to look Ramsay in his listless eyes, they flashed with such indignance and anger, much like lightning would on a pitch black night. Sansa swallowed hard as she felt his body weight crush hers and clenched her eyes shut as Ramsay buried his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender and pine from the woods.

"Where did you go, wolf?" he murmured, and Sansa shivered as his lips began trailing surprisingly gentle kisses down the column of her throat. "You fled from me," he growled, sounding much like a young boy pouting because he did not get his way, though that did not stop the fear from overtaking Sansa's body completely, nor the immense shaking.

Sansa let out a breathy squeak as he paused, locking her eyes with his, and was given no time to react as she felt Ramsay's fingers drift downwards, the pads of his fingers lightly ghosting over her collarbones, tugging at her shift. "Wh—what are you doing, milord?" she whispered.

"We're married, and you're _mine_ , my wife," he growled angrily, fumbling with the buttons of her shift. "You owe me an heir, Lady Sansa. Two or three sons, even." Sansa tried to open her mouth to speak, but nothing came out except a violent coughing spell. She had expected Ramsay to be angry with her as he bolted upright, but if she wasn't mistaken, and she liked to think about reading people, she usually was.

She watched as something within Ramsay's cold, unreadable expression softened. "Here," he sighed wearily. "Sit up, Sansa."

Sansa frowned, quirking her brow at him, not sure if she trusted him fully. Ramsay sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and exhaling slowly through his nose, as though exhausted.

The young woman watched, her eyes wide and fearful, as he poured two chalices of water, keeping one for himself, handing her the other.

When she made no move to lift the rim of the cup to her lips, he frowned. "Drink," Ramsay commanded, his tone clipped and hard. "I've not poisoned it, you know. If I wanted you dead, Sansa, you would be."

His words chilled her insides, and her throat felt like it was on fire, and it was only after she watched her lord husband lift his own cups to his lips and drink heavily that she decided to follow suit.

She really _was_ thirsty. Sansa felt her arm shoot out as if to stand, and she winced as she felt Ramsay's fingers curl around her forearm, helping her to stand, though she ignored his touch as his fingers drifted towards her hair, absently playing with a few of her red locks. "Why?"

Sansa did not need to elaborate.

"Because we are married, Sansa," Ramsay growled. "What kind of husband am I to my lady wife if I kill her on our wedding night? What do you think of me, Lady Sansa?" he asked, sounding sincere in his asking.

Sansa had not anticipated the question, and she would have fallen had Ramsay not wrapped a firm hand around her waist. Her lord husband's eyes were filled with an utter rage, and his voice sounded distant, muffled.

"Evil," she gasped out, feeling like she couldn't quite breathe all of a sudden. She watched as the blue of his eyes darkened to an almost cerulean hue, and violently jerked out of Ramsay's ironclad vice grip.

She stumbled towards the corner of the room, and with each step her stomach tightened and ached all the more. She kept swallowing, and her throat kept clenching, but no matter what, she could not stop the warm feeling rising through her chest. Sansa lost the color from her pale face.

It was as if her heart had suddenly stopped beating and all the blood had run down into her slippers. She swayed for just a moment before Ramsay caught her and surprisingly gently, lowered her to the ground.

He was talking to her, asking if she was all right. Sansa could not understand his words, he sounded as though he were underwater. With a hand against the cold stone wall of Ramsay's chambers to steady herself, she slumped against the wall and huddled in the corner of his quarters.

"Don't make a sound, Sansa, or you'll regret it," he warned, leaning in from behind her and buried his face in her hair, trailing gentle kisses down her neck. "You know what you do to me," Ramsay growled through gritted teeth.

_Goddamn you_ , Sansa thought wildly, though it was becoming harder and harder for her to resist. Gods, she felt so sick, and everything was blurry, her vision hazy and white. She struggled against him, her hand accidentally grazing against his growing hardness and he covered her mouth with a passionate kiss.

Sansa spat in his face when he broke apart, defiant and furious. She kicked him, but it was to no avail. Hot blinding rage filled Ramsay's vision and there was a horrible ringing that echoed in his eardrums. Momentarily aware of what he was doing, Ramsay grabbed Sansa's arm and shoved her against the wall of their bedroom.

"I will never love you, Ramsay!" she shouted, letting out a startled scream as he wrestled her to the ground, her head hitting the cobblestone street harder than he intended. "GET OFF OF ME! LET GO!" Sansa bellowed, but it fell on deaf ears.

"Who are you going to love, hmm, if not me?" he challenged, feeling his voice go dangerously soft and quiet. Ramsay reached up a gentle hand brushed back a lock of redhead hair behind her ear. "You're mine," he growled. "You're not going _anywhere_ , and you belong to me, pet," he threatened, shifting so he was practically crushing her under his body weight. Ramsay leaned down and kissed her, his kiss rough and demanding. "I warned you, didn't I?" he snarled, his voice low. She momentarily stopped struggling against him to stare up at him, her eyes wide in fear. "You've not done as I asked of you, now you pay the price."

"Milord, please," she begged, hating herself as her tears came, but it was no use. "Don't do this to me, please, if you've any respect at all…"

Ramsay unsheathed his knife and watched, noticing the catch in her breath as the redhead fell silent. He intentionally slowed his movement as he brought the dagger to her neck, relishing the fear in her eyes.

He held her head in his hand and placed a small gash on her right cheek, her cries of pain bringing fire to his groin. Blood formed instantly and pooled over his fingers as he cradled her head in his hand, kissing her roughly. He moaned when the taste of her blood hit his tongue.

Sansa was unsettled by all of this, what kind of man would do this to someone he claims to love, that he was now by law and rights married to?

The sting of the fresh cut soothed with his movements. Ramsay withdrew and pulled her in for a kiss, slow and deep, the surprising gentleness catching her completely off guard.

"Hush now," he soothed. "You still have a chance to make things right, my love," he murmured. "The…reminder I gave you will heal," he reassured her, enjoying it immensely as her energy drained from her the longer she fought against him. He ran a hand underneath her skirts, feeling her smooth, lean legs and shivering.

"Do whatever you're going to do and just kill me, Ramsay. I would prefer it!" she snarled through clenched teeth, hating him. "Go to hell!"

He decided he liked this change in Sansa.

She was feisty, willing to fight back against him for once. There was a fire deep within her, burning hot and bright in her soul.

Ramsay grabbed hold of her bandaged hand, squeezing it hard. Blood soaked through the bandages from when she had fallen earlier in the woods, and Sansa bit her tongue to keep from screaming.

_I won't give him the satisfaction_ , she thought angrily.

Ramsay liked it when she hurt. It was better that way. In one last act of defiance, she leaned up and bit his hand hard enough that she drew blood when he reached up to caress her cheek.

Ramsay shouted obscenities at her as he wrestled her onto her back, ignoring her threats. Grinning wickedly, he allowed his lust for her to overtake him completely, ignoring everything else but her.

Ramsay didn't want her imagining she had any measure of control over him at this point in their game. His hand wandered beneath her skirts, running his hand over her legs, occasionally brushing his fingers between her legs, not yet entering her, wanting to savor the pleasure of finally entering her at last.

_I should have taken you for myself years ago_ , he thought, and growled. "Say it," he urged, his eyes blazing. "You know what to say, Sansa."

"NO!" she hollered, spitting in his face. "I won't!"

" _Say it_ ," he repeated, his anger reaching toxic levels, reaching up to cup her chin in his hand. "If you don't, I'll kill all your fucking friends who helped you escape. I will find out who helped you, Lady Sansa."

Sansa glowered at him, wincing at the pain in her shoulder as one of the stones dug into her skin. _Someone, please help me_ , she pleaded, but no one was coming.

As she stared up at Ramsay, her eyes wide and fearful, she knew she had to do this to stay alive. Sansa fought back her tears and swallowed hard.

"Please," she croaked, her voice cracking. "Ramsay, don't do this to me, I'm begging you. If you truly love me, let me go. There must be some good still inside you. _Please_."

"Please what?" he teased, reaching up a gentle hand to wipe away the blood from the cut on her cheek. "You know what to say, my love. Say it," he commanded coldly.

Sansa glared at him, her eyes going numb with dull acceptance.

"Please take me," she hissed angrily, knowing his body demanded hers, and if she didn't let him do this, he'd kill her and still, Ramsay would go after Ser Aleyn and Brienne and would murder poor Theon.

"A polite whore, little wife," Ramsay remarked, the sound of her delicate begging going straight to his member. He withdrew his hand from between her legs abruptly and she groaned at the loss of his touch but watched in horror as he drew his fingers into his mouth, his eyes shut, as he tasted her.

"Almost as sweet as you," he half-whispered, and Sansa shivered at the look he gave her, his look lacking any warmth or kindness, nothing but darkness and lust for her.

Absolute power and control. Ramsay guided himself to her entrance, entering in one sharp thrust, and she was warm, so warm.

_Just like I always imagined her to be_ , he thought. Her walls were impossibly tight, and she cried out only once, biting her tongue to keep from screaming.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Sansa glared up at Ramsay and inexplicably began to laugh. Ramsay paused, surprised by her cruel laughter.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed through clenched teeth, thrusting into her hard enough that she flinched, but still, she continued laughing at him. When she opened her eyes to look at him, the look in her eyes was…amused.

How _dare_ she find this funny?

"Thanks to you, I'm no longer a maiden," she laughed, squirming under his body. "You might have taken that from me, but I will _never_ love you, Bastard of Bolton. How could I, after all that you have done? Are doing? You are scum, worthless," she taunted, a small part of her enjoying the way he jerked at that name, as if in pain. She laughed wickedly, seeing how uncomfortable that made her.

"Nothing."

"Did you not hear me?" Ramsay growled, pulling her up for a passionate kiss. She wrenched away, an interesting gleam in her gray eyes. "I told you, wench," he snarled. "No other woman save for you has tempted me the way you do. How could you not have heard me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she mocked, "I didn't know I was supposed to engage in a conversation with my lord husband. I'm just a poor little defenseless wife," she hissed. "Forgive me," she teased. "I was so preoccupied with thoughts of killing you and slitting your throat in your sleep, I hadn't been paying any attention to you, could you repeat that?" she joked weakly, laughing at his rage. "Milord."

Ramsay groaned at her tightness, thrusting into her violently, fisting a hand into her redhead hair. "Does it hurt?" he demanded angrily.

"Yes," she answered, her voice reluctantly pained.

His eyes were burning at this, rage and desire for her building together, consuming Ramsay in waves. "Shut the hell up! Be quiet!" he ordered, not sure where her sudden shift in attidude was coming from.

_It's unlike her_ , he thought.

_I have the upper hand here, despite what he's doing to me_ , Sansa thought wildly. _I have power. Power to make Ramsay hurt, to make him suffer, to make him see what he's done to me is evil_.

"You...you're nothing. You're evil, you don't love me! How could you? Look what you're doing to me! This isn't love, Ramsay, this is lust. Your love for me is nothing but a conquest!"

"SHUT UP!" he roared, but it only fueled her fire.

Sansa laughed, holding no more shame in her veins. All that remained was a hot burning hatred boiling her bloodstream, loathing for Ramsay, desire to make him pay for what he did to her, what he took from her.

"We'll see how much _disgust_ I can make you feel," he warned, withdrawing almost fully before violently thrusting into her again, savoring the pleasure of ripping her open. "Face it, Sansa, I've ruined you for anyone else."

The forcefulness of his movements caused her to cry out, willing her body to relax while Ramsay continued his movements, studying every flicker of pain that painted her beautiful features until gradually her body stretched to accommodate him. He sighed, feeling her change.

Sansa glared at him, moving to bury her face in the crook of his neck to avoid looking at him a second longer than she had to.

She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry and beg for him to stop, even though what he was doing to her burned, an intense fire she'd never felt before in her life and she wanted it to end.

Sansa clenched her teeth shut and ground her teeth so tight from the effort to keep from screaming, but he tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her back.

"No," he growled. "I want to see you. Look at me." When she wouldn't, he felt his temper swell. "LOOK AT ME!" he shouted, beside himself.

Reluctantly, Sansa looked. She had such a look of revulsion in her eyes; he knew she was imagining hundreds of ways to kill him.

His coarse tongue licked at her skin, Ramsay's fingers curled in her time she closed her eyes, he bashed her head in against the floor of their room, demanding she open them. _I don't want to_ , she thought, letting out a tiny groan as she felt something wet trickle down her neck.

The coppery scent of blood filled her nostrils. _That's mine_ , she thought, slightly panicked, clenching her eyes shut and praying he'd finish soon.

Anything, rather than watch his face light up with power and lust. Ramsay became angry, his force less controlled until finally blood ran from the back of her head and onto the floor and she felt herself losing consciousness.

She was awake, but only just.

_I wish he'd just kill me_ , she thought, anguished. _Let me die and bleed out here, it'll be good for me. Anything but this._ Sansa let out a sharp cry as he quickened his pace, her fingernails digging into his shoulder blades. _I should have brought my knife. If I had, you'd be dead now_.

"Seven hells," he cursed through gritted teeth, wrapping his hands around her throat, and beginning to increase his pressure, hard enough to cut off her airflow, his pace faltering as he released within her.

Ramsay captured her lips and kissed her roughly, imagining draining the very life force out of her. His reverie was broken as she abruptly pulled away from his demanding kiss, trying to get what little air she could.

Ramsay maintained his position, riding out the aftershock of his release in half-thrusts, but she dug her nails into his shoulders hard enough that she drew blood.

Ramsay slowed to a stop, releasing her at last, wrenching himself off of her, but not before holding her wrathful defiant glare for several minutes. Sansa gasped and coughed for air that wasn't there, glaring at him as she held a hand to her throat.

_She's bruising already_ , he thought, admiring his work. _But that's what the witch does to me; I can't control myself whenever I'm around her. She ignites my baser desires._

Sansa continued to cough for air, color slowly returning to her face. "I hate you," she whispered, trembling as she forced herself to kneel to her knees. Her face had gone white with shock as Sansa struggled to accept what just happened to her.

_How I wish I could commit this to my memory forever_ , he mused, smirking. _You'll make a wonderful wife to me, my love_. _Our children that we sire together are going to be fucking wolves. We're conquer the North, you and I, as its King and Queen._

"I don't care," he retorted coldly. "I'm a part of you now, pet, forever. You and I should have joined a long time ago. You'll always remember this, won't you? I know I will," he crooned, a truly evil smile on his lips. "You're my new favorite. I like you, little wife, and I think I'll keep you."

"Go away, Ramsay! I never want to see you again! I will _never_ love you!" she shouted, erupting into a coughing fit as she still struggled to get what air she could.

Ramsay laughed. "I just showed you what happens when you cross me," he snarled, bringing his face in close to hers. He grabbed her arm and wrenched her to her feet. "Are you going to do as I ask now, hmm? Say no, and you'll very much regret it," he warned.

"No," she hissed and spat at his feet.

Ramsay clucked his tongue in mock disapproval. "You don't do this, and I'm killing Theon. There's no going quick for this kid. He killed your brothers, shouldn't you want vengeance. I'm going to gut him like the fucking little weasel that he is, and I'm going to make you watch as I take his head, and then you're _mine_ ," he growled. "I can give you so much more than you really deserve."

"RAMSAY, GO AWAY!" she roared. "I will never love you!"

"If you want him _alive_ , you'll do as I say. Your name-day party is coming up, my darling. You'll be obedient, won't you, my dear? Your…friends' lives depend on. I'm warning you, Sansa, I can be a good friend to you but I can also be a terrible enemy, and as your lord husband, I should want my wife to be happy. I'd much rather be kind to you, Sansa."

When she didn't offer her thanks, Ramsay raised his hand threateningly. Sansa winced, lowering her head, and mumbling her gratitude only half-heartedly.

"The next time my hand flies, Sansa, I won't be so forgiving. Soon, this will all be over. You will love me, as I love you, and you will provide me with an heir. You'll see." Recognizing he had broken her spirit, he laughed and stormed out of their bedroom.

Sansa nodded, feeling her tears well in her eyes, unable to stop them. She remained rooted, frozen to her spot on the floor of their chambers long after Ramsay had left her alone. She shakily tried to take a few steps forward and collapsed, too weak to walk.

Sansa flinched as she touched a hand gingerly to the back of her head. Her fingers came away bloody. She glanced down, assessing her now ruined white silk robe and her condition. Other than the back of her head, the cut on her cheek, and her wounded pride, there was no other sign that she'd been attacked.

She lifted her head to the heavens and cried. _By the gods, someone help me_. But as usual, her prayers were meant with silence.

No one was coming to save her. She was on her own.

She began to scream.


	18. Roose

**Roose**

Lord Roose watched with no small level of amusement as his bastard son restlessly paced the cold stone floor of the mess hall, his footfalls sounding more and more agitated the longer Ramsay kept up this infuriating behavior. The Warden huffed in frustration and threw down his spoon back into the bowl of porridge that Hilda dared to call a meal.

It tasted grainy and settled horribly on his tongue, that no amount of sugar could sweeten, and the taste lingered long after he'd washed his bite down with a swig of water. "You brought this upon yourself, you know. Parading the Greyjoy boy, your little _pet_ ," he sneered, crinkling his nose in disgust, "in front of Lady Stark like that during your wedding feast, not to mention in front of the other house's lords and their wives. What in the seven hells were you _thinking_? Oh. That's right," he snapped, pursing his lips into a thin rigid line. "You weren't. You deserved every bit of what she gave you, and more. You are lucky I do not raise my hand against you myself and flay you until there's no skin left on your bones for the horrible disgrace and shame you have brought upon House Bolton. It is no wonder she fled from you in disgust, Ramsay. You shamed her, yourself, and my name in the act and therefore you've just stepped across a nonnegotiable line for which you must pay the consequences."

The low warning growl escaped from Roose's throat before he could so much as stop it, and there was a large part of the Warden that felt a grim satisfaction in watching his bastard son's face drain of color and beads of sweat begin to form on his brow. "I gave you this one chance, boy, this one chance that there might be an inkling of hope for you, yet. But if you continue to play your fucking mind games with her, then we will no longer _have_ Sansa Stark, for I would not be surprised at all if your lady wife becomes so sick of you that she flees. _Again_ ," he added darkly for emphasis, and the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a twisted grimace. "If that happens, we lose control of our strongholds and our grasp on the entire North will fail, and we cannot let that happen, boy. That is why I give you this advice freely of my own volition, which I will say to you only _once_ ," Roose snarled, baring his teeth and gripping his son's arm hard enough to break as he violently shoved Ramsay up against a pillar. He did not flinch, even as Ramsay heard the cracking in his back. No doubt a muscle had been strained.

Roose sneered. His bastard son deserved worse than what he would give him, and as far as the Warden was concerned, he would go light on Ramsay.

"You must take better care to treat your wife with even an inkling of respect. Our lives will be much the better for it if your wife learns to even like you. She does not have to love you, but you must keep her close, for she is our key to maintaining the North. Without her, we will fall and no longer have the North's support. We cannot succeed without it. You and I both know this, Ramsay. That is what will keep her by your side. Not passion, not fucking lust. The whole bloody household knows of the despicable way you treated the girl a fortnight ago on your wedding night. We all know what you get up to behind the closed doors of your chamber with that kennel bitch and the other whores and strumpets of the castle. Why should your wedding night be any different? My entire staff knows what kind of monster you are. That you would force yourself on the Stark girl like a _dog_ in heat. What in the seven hells would you have me do about it, for then the entire fucking North would know just how you treat the last Wolf of Winterfell like the fucking beast that you are," Roose growled, and he was surprised to see the sudden moistening of Ramsay's bright blue eyes. "I could tolerate your behavior had you impregnanted the girl already, but you seem even incapable of doing that simple task. You truly are a failure."

He knew as the words flew out of his mouth that they'd hit their mark, by the way Ramsay's face paled in shock, anger, and even hurt.

"She—she will no longer be a concern," Ramsay spoke up, his voice going unusually soft and quiet, his blue eyes glistening as he looked at Roose. Roose snorted and repressed the urge to roll his eyes in disgust.

The Warden gave a curt nod. "See to it that she won't. Perhaps I would send the girl to work elsewhere. She is…a distraction for you, I am afraid. Perhaps I could tolerate your unnatural behavior if Lady Sansa was pregnant with an heir by this time, but over a fortnight has passed since the joining of our two houses in matrimony, and yet, I hear…troubling rumors, of how you force yourself on her night after night in your chambers, and yet, for all your troubles, nothing comes of it," he growled, relinquishing his grip on Ramsay's jerkin and shoving him backward. "I have not seen Lady Sansa take meals with us in the mess hall in quite some time. The rumors concerning your wife are most troubling, Ramsay. That you are keeping her locked up in your chambers like she is naught but a prisoner," he commented, clasping his hands behind his back and striding over to look out the window out at the estate's snow-covered grounds, though he could feel Ramsay's glacier stare practically piercing the back of his skull like a fallen icicle were to hit him from above. "I give you this one chance to make amends, to bring honor to your name and you squander it. I should have knowing you are nothing but a useless wretched little worm. I should have taken you into the sea and let the waves carry you away and rid me of your boorish stupidity when you emerged from your mother's womb, and yet, something within me compelled me to keep you. Do not make me regret my decision, Ramsay," he growled, letting out a low warning growl from the back of his throat as his hand hovered over the hilt of his dagger he carried on his person. "Perhaps you think it funny?"

Ramsay's gaze drifted towards his father's hand and Lord Roose could have sworn he heard the catch in his son's breath. "No, Father."

Lord Bolton smiled, though there was no warmth in the gesture, nor in his eyes. "Good." He felt his fingers give one final twitch and he relaxed his hand and let it fall to his side. He coughed once to clear his throat and reached up the other to smooth his hair. "Inform the Lady Sansa that I should like to see her present tonight in the mess hall. Lady Walda and I need to see that your wife is alive and well. She will dine with us, as Lady Walda and I have some good news we'd like to share with our…family tonight, since we would all be together. She will show up tonight, Ramsay. Make sure of it, and should I see one hair on her pretty little head harmed, there will be consequences. If you should fail to procure your wife…well, do I really need to say it?" he drawled. "She will show. Or else. Do not make me say it again a second time, Ramsay."

He swiveled his head back around to regard Ramsay with bemusement in his eyes and was pleased to see his son's ashen face.

The boy was fucking terrified of him, of what he would do to him. Ramsay did not need to ask what 'or else' meant in this case. He knew.

"Yes, Father." He murmured it in such a quiet voice that was unlike him, for a moment, Lord Roose was uncertain if his bastard son had spoken at all. "I will make you proud of me, Father. By the gods, I swear it." Roose gave a curt nod and turned his back on his son, silently signaling the end of their conversation.

_There's that look_ , he thought stoically, without so much as sparing Ramsay a second glance as he exited the mess hall. _I've seen that look on his face since he was but five. He hates me, and I should think that my bastard son will die with all the hate for me in his veins_.

He did not look up from his mindless staring out the window as he heard Maester Wolkan's soft footfall as he entered the room. Lord Roose snorted, rolling his eyes as he watched, turning around slowly, and pouring himself a fresh flagon of Dornish wine, as his old colleague and quite perhaps the closest thing to a friend the Warden had.

The maester and something of an advisor to the Lord of Winterfell began to pace irritably back and forth, constantly wringing his withered hands together in agitation, his knuckles white. Tersely, every few minutes or so, the old man's eyes would flicker back and forth between Lord Roose and the door from which Ramsay had just vacated, as though he were looking for any sign or signal that at any given point in time, Roose's bastard son would burst right through doors in a wild rage.

Maester Wolkan was a godforsaken mess. A muscle twitched involuntarily at the corner of his right eye; his mouth formed a rigid grimace. With his arms folded tightly across his chest across his broad chest, he tapped his foot furiously and all the while stared out the window of his office. Cold sweat glistened on his furrowed brow. With his hands clasped tightly in front of his stomach, he constantly fiddled with his knuckles, weaving his fingers in and out of each other and began unnecessarily picking at a sleeve on his brown robes. "Lord Bolton."

"Speak," commanded Roose in somewhat of a lazy drawl as he gestured for the maester to take the seat across from him. "Sit before you suffer a complaint of the heart, Wolkan," he chuckled darkly. "What ails you on this fine winter's morning, Maester Wolkan? Speak your mind."

Maester Wolkan continued that incessant fidgeting of his fingers, but at last he relented, seeing Roose Bolton would not take no for an answer. "It is Lady Stark, milord Bolton. I fear that the girl remains in danger as long as she remains married to Lord Ramsay and under his watchful eye. I fear for her life," the old healing maester practically wailed in distraught.

Roose scoffed. "Oh?" he asked in a bored sounding voice as he studied the maester over the rim of his goblet as he lifted it to his lips and took a long drawn out sip, relishing as the burning alcohol went down his throat.

"The master becomes more volatile every day the longer he remains a beast, and the girl, oh, the girl, she has quite the mouth on her!"

"Aye, Maester Wolkan, will you calm down?" spoke up Roose at last, sounding exasperated. "This stressing of yours will no doubt give you an aneurism or a complaint of the heart, and you are needed to ensure my son is born safe and sound. Lady Walda needs you, Wolkan. Calm down."

"But the girl..." Maester Wolkan's voice cracked and trailed off. "She has your son's full attentions these days, milord."

Roose shot Measter Wolkan a withering look. "That is not necessarily a bad thing, maester. Why should my son not take an interest in his wife? She's a rather interesting girl, is she not? She is outspoken, opinionated, and quite kind, perhaps even loyal to a fault. A fault that is apt to get her killed one of these days when she puts her faith in the wrong person. I do believe deep down that Sansa Stark could do my bastard son a world of good, but first they both have to give each other a chance, no more avoiding each other like we've seen them doing the past few days."

"But there is no telling what the master will do to the poor child!" protested Maester Wolkan wildly, almost looking unhinged as his dark thoughts crept into his consciousness. "I would not put it past the master to force himself upon her again like some kind of—of wild beast—"

"The boy is not that kind of man, deep down, I think," offered Roose Bolton, his voice surprisingly calm and light, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the wall for support. "Think what you want of my son. I have seen it in his eyes since his wedding night. Already, he is much changed, and in no part thanks to his lovely little blossom of a bride."

"I do not trust the master to be able to control his urges! If she suffers any more abuse at his hand, I fear the girl will try something rash, and..." retorted Maester Wolkan hotly. "I've seen him the last few days, there's no telling what he would do, and he..." his voice trailed off, lost in thought. After a moment of silence, Wolkan opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by the sound of a loud, ferocious roar echoing throughout the castle, originating from his chambers upstairs, followed by the sound of Lady Sansa's muffled screaming. "Oh, no," he groaned darkly. "What now?"

"Whatever it is, he sounds quite upset," muttered Lord Bolton, his eyes widening in shock as he dared to peek out the mess hall door. He suppressed a snort as the girl's shouts mingled with his son's threats.

Clearly, this girl was not one to be tested and his bastard son had underestimated her, as he did not intimidate her., and he knew that because of that fact, Ramsay was lost.

"I do believe this girl could very well be the one to break my son out of this vicious fucking cycle of disgusting violence and bloodshed if all goes well for the two of them," he chuckled, motioning for Maester Wolkan to follow him to investigate the matter further to see what was going on.

Maester Wolkan lingered for a moment, his lips pursed into a thin line and looking thoughtful.

"Perhaps," the old withered healer said softly, daring to hold onto that last shred of hope. The maester, as a general rule, hid his emotions. It was the way the old man had learned at an early age to survive in the servitude of the Bolton family. He figured his emotions were information he would rather not divulge, lest the master find him weak and dismiss him for being too soft, so his face often remained impassive, indifferent. But in the moment, it was different.

For the first time in perhaps his life, Ramsay Bolton had met a woman who was not intimidated and afraid by him, and dared to speak her mind and even put the wretched young man in his place, more than a few times, as he rightfully deserved from time to time. Judging by the shouting echoing in the corridor, Wolkan stifled a smile as now appeared to be one of those times.

Before the man could stop himself, a smile cracked on his face that hadn't been seen in a few months that made Maester Wolkan look years younger than his age, and he walked a little faster to catch up to Roose. He could not quite explain it, even if his life depended on it, but the healer just had a good feeling about this girl and having her here with them couldn't possibly bode ill for the master.

Nothing would go wrong with Lady Sansa here. It just couldn't.

"Lady Sansa," he whispered admirably, careful to keep his voice low so that Lord Roose would not overhear him as they headed for the stairwell to see what in seven hells was causing such a ruckus, "you may survive us yet."


	19. Myranda

**Myranda**

The kennel master’s daughter could hardly believe how the tables had turned. “How the mighty have fallen,” Myranda whispered to herself as she carefully balanced the heavily laden breakfast tray against her knee, careful not to spill a drop of the hot herbal tea or the bread and cheese Hilda had given her to take to Lady Sansa Stark’s chambers.

Myranda felt her lips twist upwards into a grimace more than a sneer as she stood outside of the Stark girl’s chambers, or rather, more important, _their_ chambers now.

She missed Ramsay bad enough that her heart ached, and she could feel the heat pooling between her legs at night as the heat of missing him overwhelmed her. Myranda missed feeling how his lips would ravage hers, how his teeth would leave markings on the skin of her neck, sometimes drawing blood on the column of her throat. How he would ravage her until it felt like she could no longer walk in a straight line when he was finished. But it had been a few nights now since the joining of the Stark girl and Ramsay in marriage, and even when Ramsay took his meals in the mess hall with Lord Roose and Fat Walda, the kennel bitch could see it in the Bastard of Bolton’s eyes, how he was already a much changed man, and Myranda could feel the pit forming uncomfortably in her stomach, as she realized that what little heart Ramsay Bolton did possess, was now hers. Sansa’s. The little cunt that had everything that Myranda ever wanted. Myranda ground her teeth in anger and felt her jaw lock as she continued to stare at the doorknob.

The kennel master’s daughter was torn between her desire to burst into the room and make a mockery of the very bitch that had ruined the only good thing in Myranda’s otherwise shitty life, or to turn on her heel of her boot, the food still in her hands, and let the redheaded Stark bitch slowly starve to her death. Myranda just had to see it for herself.

The rumors flew amongst Winterfell that ever since their wedding night, how Ramsay had forced himself upon Sansa Stark and claimed her for himself, that she refused to speak, much less eat. How she would refuse to look Ramsay in the eyes, which in turn, only fueled his wrath even further. Myranda scoffed and rolled her eyes in disgust at Sansa Stark’s weakness. Ramsay Bolton hated weak women, especially ones like her who were meek. Timid. Afraid. Spineless. Myranda felt her mouth stretch even wider than she thought possible as she decided the time had tone. Kicking open the door and shifting the tray underneath her arm to better hold it upright, the kennel master’s daughter momentarily found herself surprised at how dark their bed chambers were. No candles were lit, save for one that lay perched in the windowsill, the flames flickering, dying slow.

 _Like I wish you would. Were that Lord Roose or Ramsay should flay you alive_ , Myranda thought bitterly, her dark eyes flashing in anger, though for the sake of appearances, she forced a smile on her face as she took a ginger step through the door.

The kennel master’s daughter always smiled with a fake smile of hers. She always thought that life would be easier that way. To be kind to others, compliment them while in reality, all Myranda really wanted to do was the exact opposite. Insult them to their faces, not caring the outcome if she were to be horribly punished for it. She liked it.

But that would only make her already hard life even more difficult, which prevented Myranda from acting out on these desires. But when she had met Lord Ramsay when they were both but children, even when they were small, he had not fallen for her smile.

Or her charm. It was one of many things that Myranda like about Ramsay Bolton.

Myranda liked to think that she had mastered her fake smile, right down to the wrinkles around her heavily-lidded dark eyes. No one had ever dared to question her except for one person. He saw in her eyes, the windows to what little soul she possessed.

She paused, reflecting on one of the first things he had said to her, wise beyond his years even back then, as a boy, and she a mere little slip of a thing. “Your expression is always the same,” Ramsay had bluntly said to her one afternoon while feeding the dogs.

His words had taken Myranda by surprise, she couldn’t have been more than eleven or so at the time, and before even she knew it, Roose Bolton’s son began spending more time with her. It was not that hard considering he was her superior, and she, the servant.

Days passed as quick as light. Myranda didn’t even know when it happened, or how it did, as they grew up together. But eventually, her fake smile turned real. And now… _this_.

‘This,’ being Ramsay’s wife, who was currently huddled in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, a listless expression in her normally brilliant blue eyes, as her chin rested on top of her kneecaps, and Myranda silently seethed, allowing herself to hate her.

Myranda allowed herself to meet Sansa’s gaze as she wordlessly placed the tray on a nearby table, sauntering over to the window and lighting another candlewick in the sill.

She wanted to be able to better see the bitch’s eyes. Myranda smirked and stared into Lady Sansa Stark’s eyes, determined not to look away first, though the angry voices inside her head screamed at her, creating a horrible pounding at the base of her skull, as visions of Sansa’s bloodied, broken corpse laying lifelessly in front of her consumed her mind.

The kennel master’s daughter was certain that Lady Sansa knew she was trying to hide her feelings of immense hatred and dislike for her, but still, she was bound and determined to fool the bitch. Myranda contorted her lips into an awkward, toothy smile that already, both women knew did not meet her eyes, but her cheeks were not quite so compromising. She could feel their reluctance to be molded falsely, but still, she tried.

When Sansa dipped her head and finally averted Myranda’s gaze, the kennel bitch felt her smile fall lifeless, allowing her face to return to its usual cold hard gawking of envy.

Myranda knew that the She Wolf of Winterfell would deny it whenever asked about it, whether by one of the other serving girls, or probably even now to her as Myranda knew she was about to ask the question, and did not bother to stop herself as the obligatory, “Are you well, Lady Stark? Can I get you anything else?” tumbled from her lips. Myranda’s own lips pursed into a thin, narrow line as she folded her arms across her chest. She saw it in Sansa Stark’s face, that seven hells, no, she was not, in fact, all right.

The lies over Sansa’s lips, faking smiles, and her words, trying to convince everybody else in Winterfell that she was just fine. Whenever the bitch smiled, something felt wrong, like a little crook over her luscious pink lips, coming from deep inside her soul. Not that Myranda cared a whit what happened to Sansa Stark. She would sooner see her buried six feet underground for taking Ramsay’s affections and his attentions away from Myranda.

“No.” Sansa Stark’s voice was cold, devoid of emotion. “My lord husband is a monster, and yet…” she paused, her voice trailing off as she blearily lifted her head to gaze through a slightly hazy and unfocused look at Myranda as the kennel master’s daughter grabbed the tray of food that she had set aside, torn off a hunk of the bread and cut a wedge of cheese and handed it to the girl on a little serving plate. “I thank you,” she mumbled, dipping her head in acknowledgement, “but tell Lord Ramsay that I shall not eat. Please go back to your lord and inform my lord husband that I have hanged myself.”

Myranda snorted, rolling her eyes. _What a weak little cunt_ , she thought meanly.

“Do you require your own rope, milady?” Myranda spat, poisonous honey and venom dripping from her words as they tumbled out of her mouth of their own volition, her tongue no longer taking directions from her mind. “Or shall I provide one for you?”

Sansa’s head whiplashed sharply upwards, and she furrowed her brows into a light frown. “I should do it myself,” she snapped, choosing to ignore Myranda’s statement, which, for reason that were even unknown to the kennel master’s daughter, ignited a fire like Wildfire deep into her bloodstream as waves of anger coursed through her veins.

Myranda rolled her eyes again and knelt at Sansa’s eye level. “I know you think ill of me, and with good reason,” she said, lowering her voice and trying a different tactic. “It is no secret that I despise you, but man’s law and my servitude towards the Bolton family requires that I serve you, and so that is what I must do, milady,” she whisper hissed through clenched teeth. “It is…true, that I do not believe you to be worthy of Ramsay.”

“No one deserves to be married to that _man_ ,” Sansa whispered, her voice lowering to a soft susurration and her voice cracked as she blinked back briny tears, lifting a shaking hand to her eye level as she studied the simple but still quite beautiful yellow gold band that Myranda would have happily given her right arm to wear, and she loathed Sansa.

The kennel master’s daughter watched as Lady Stark curled her left hand into a fist, which was trembling and shaking like a leaf in the wind, not sure what to do with her hands. Myranda heaved a haggard sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “ _Eat_ ,” she commanded, no warmth or sympathy in her tone. She admittedly thought the Stark cunt was getting off lightly, considering she wanted nothing more than strangle the redheaded bitch she-wolf with her own two hands, though she knew that by doing so, she would risk possible expulsion from Winterfell, maybe even death, for daring to lay a hand on Ramsay’s wife. He had made it quite clear following her wedding night that anybody that would be discovered mistreating their precious key to the North, would be flayed alive publicly in the courtyard for all to see, and then hanged.

No. That she could not allow. So, for now, Myranda would bide her time until another option presented itself. Her father was apt to tell her growing up that patience in life was a precious commodity, a virtue that not many in all of Westeros possessed, and that if she could master the art of being patient, then only good things would befall her.

“I did not traipse my way up all those fucking stairs only to be sent away and hear that you are starving yourself. Think of what will happen to you if your _husband_ finds out.”

Myranda knew as her hateful words flew from her mouth that they had hit their mark. She watched with no small measure of satisfaction as the color drained from Sansa’s face, and she snatched the bread loaf off the little plate and tore off a hunk of it with her teeth.

“Lord Bolton and his father request that you join the two of them tonight in the mess hall. They command to see you at dinner, they wish to know Ramsay’s wife is alive and well,” sighed Myranda, adopting the tone of someone talking to a twelve-year-old child, rather than a grown woman of almost nineteen. “The Boltons are not so bad, Lady Stark.”

Sansa pursed her lips into a thin line and shot a look of daggers the kennel master’s daughter’s way. “I should have nothing to do with my…lord husband,” she explained through gritted teeth between mouthfuls of bread and cheese. “He has the audacity to keep me a prisoner here in our own chambers, forbidden me to leave unless he goes with me, h-he…defiles me every single night, forcing himself inside me like the dog that he is, and he and his wretched family have taken away my own family, my home, turned it into a place that I no longer recognize, and then suggest, no, demand, that I join them for dinner? I think not. You may go back to Lords Roose and Ramsay and tell them that I refuse, and if they are angered with my response, seeing as I’m like to kill myself tonight, then I should trouble them no longer, for I cannot continue to live in these conditions.”

Myranda, before she knew it, burst out laughing, erupting into a giggling fit that she immediately clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle, though it was already too late for that. She grinned behind her hand as she heard Lady Stark let out a low growl from the back of her throat. “You believe this to be funny? For it is not. Think about it. If you are the last person to be seen in my chambers whilst I still draw air into my lungs, and then later, if they were to discover my lifeless body on this very floor, who then, would they blame?” Sansa Stark questioned quietly, a hardened edge to her voice that was most unlike her, and her words immediately quelled the hysterical laughing fit Myranda was having.

By the gods, but the bitch was right. Myranda frowned, lowering her hand from her mouth, where it fell limply and hung at her side. “I think,” she began hesitantly, not even believing the cohesive thought that was forming in her mind as she realized Sansa was correct. If they were to discover her body here and knew that Myranda had been the last one to speak with her, the fault would be pointed directly to her, and she’d be executed.

What Myranda needed was time, and as much as the kennel master’s daughter hated to admit it, the Stark bitch would have to remain alive. _For now_ , she thought angrily.

“I believe that you will come around, in time. Ramsay is not a bad man once you get to know him. Misguided perhaps, and certainly not what you were expecting, given you spent most of your time surrounded by those godforsaken fucking Lannisters, but…”

“I don’t want to get to know him!” Sansa Stark shouted hotly, bolting to her feet, and practically collapsing onto their marriage bed, ignoring the heated look Myranda was giving her. “My new husband is a monster in every literal sense of the word. He has no regard for my honor, cares naught for my feelings or my wishes. He cares about only siring an heir and fucking me every night after he’s indulged in a little too much wine.”

Myranda frowned. “Is this not a better life for yourself than living in exile or even worse?” she said. “Many women would kill to be in your position, Lady Stark _.” Including me_ , she thought, but did not dare voice that opinion, lest it get her into serious trouble.

The kennel master’s daughter sighed and took the tray away once she was done eating. “Perhaps…Lord Ramsay might be kinder to you if you did not treat him with such scorn. I see the way that he looks at you. In his own way, he does…care for you.”

The words as she spoke them felt like poison. “He has…” Myranda paused, not sure how much information she could divulge of Ramsay’s past, as it was not hers to tell. “He has had a difficult life, which as he has aged, has not improved, of which Lord Ramsay’s story is not mine to tell. If you wish to hear it, you must hear it from his lips and his alone. I can see that my words have intrigued you, but I am not permitted to say more.”

She paused, hoisting the tray underneath her right arm as she turned around, preparing to leave, when something the Stark bitch said to Myranda rendered her immobile.

“How long have you loved him, Myranda? Do not _lie_ to me. It is in your eyes. I see much that goes on within the walls of my home, and I have become quite good at reading people’s emotions, what they are thinking, even, to a lesser extent, what they are feeling.”

Myranda felt her face drain of what little color there was in it to begin with as she felt her jaw drop open in shock and anger. Her heart began to rattle and pound like a wild dog against its chains, screaming at her, so audibly loud, she was surprised the redheaded bitch smiling back at her with that infuriatingly sweet and innocent smile couldn’t hear it.

Sansa smiled, though her eyes were like an icy blue dagger straight to the kennel bitch’s heart. “I know you were his…companion,” she began after a moment’s hesitation. “Whatever the two of you might have had once, he has forgotten you, discarded you like the _shit_ that you are,” she snarled, baring her own canines, and for a moment, Myranda was afraid. This… _this_ was the She-Wolf of Winterfell, of the North she’d heard much of. “I must confess to you, Myranda, that I am not proud to take your place, but I know, there’s that look that you cannot hide from, it’s in your eyes. You thought he would be with you for all eternity, but such a union would never be looked upon with approval, because he is a lord of the House of Bolton, and you…” Sansa crinkled her nose in disgust. “Are naught but a kennel bitch, spending your days around filthy hounds and manure and hay. Lord Roose Bolton would never agree to the match, and you know it.”

Myranda silently fumed, seething in her anger, feeling her nails dig into the skin of her palm. Ah, but if looks could kill, the Stark bitch would be dead in a fraction of a second.

“I—you are confused,” Myranda began coldly. “You know naught of which you speak. You do not know what you are talking about. Th—there is nothing between us.”

Sansa’s cold gaze remained fixed, her face impassive, though there was the sharp glint that looked like the edge of a knife, Ramsay’s knife, that flickered in her azure orbs. “Ah, but I do, darling. Perhaps there was something there, once, but ever since I have set foot back on northern soil, it is not there. Ramsay’s attentions are now solely fixated upon me, and that bothers you. I was like you once,” she sighed, turning her head away, and for a moment, Myranda was tempted to smack the bitch across her stupid fucking face and force the redhead to look her in the eyes and demand she take back all of her filthy lies.

But…Myranda was confused. “Like me, milady?”

“I believed in true love, once. I was foolish. Naïve. Sixteen maybe, at best. And now, here I am, passed from two husbands and onto the next. It was King Joffrey that first instilled in me how utterly _foolish_ I was, opened my eyes, but as cruel as that boy-king was, he helped me to see the error of my beliefs, and how stupid I was believing, thinking that my true love would be waiting. Milord husband Tyrion was…quite kind,” she confessed, absentmindedly picking at the sleeve of her gown, “but he was a rarity among a family of lions. And now…I belong to Ramsay,” Sansa Stark sighed, “and I have seen that there is no love in his heart or in his eyes. He is cold, and he has sad eyes, but perhaps I could be the one to instill in him a change, hopefully for the better, and rid him of the stain upon his name. His lord father Roose seems to believe so, and as much as it pains me to confess it, it is my sworn duty as one of the last Stark women to try to uphold my promise. I made a promise to Mother and Father I would make the best of my life with whatever I was given, and though this was the hand that I was dealt, I should seek to succeed, no matter what. I know how to play Ramsay’s little game. And how to _win_.”

To that, the kennel master’s daughter had no words, for she could not think of an apt response to formulate in her mind. Visions of scarlet red danced in front of her line of sight as she imagined dozens of ways to kill the cunt in front of her, each one more bloody and violent than the previous. _Soon_ , she reminded herself, curling her fists.

Sansa Stark must have sensed that she was getting to the kennel master’s daughter for she let out a sigh, her smile faltering as her gaze remained fixated upon Myranda.

“I would not see you near my lord husband again, Myranda. Is that understood?”

“Y-yes, milady.” Myranda mumbled her response, bowing her head in submission.

“Good. You may inform Lord Roose that he may see me now,” she whispered, lifting her head to stare at the open door to her chamber, which Myranda had perhaps foolishly gotten to close. “You may tell my lord husband that I will join him for dinner.”

Myranda crinkled her nose in disgust and pulled a face but dropped into a low curtsy.

“It will be done, milady,” she whispered quietly, hissing it through clenched teeth. As she carried the breakfast tray underneath her arm, it did not escape the kennel master’s daughter how the Warden of Winterfell was currently eyeing Lady Sansa Stark. Hungrily.

Myranda grinned to herself as a wild, radical idea began to form in the back of her mind, consuming her as she bolted down the stairwell to head back towards the kitchens.

Until she could think of nothing else, the kennel master’s daughter began to formulate a plan in her mind to rid herself and Ramsay of the Stark bitch once and for all, for good.

She would not trouble Ramsay any longer. Myranda could not wait to see the girl suffer, and the kennel master’s daughter knew what she had to do to make that happen.

Myranda did not consider herself a hero until Sansa Stark married Ramsay. Then, all was fair in love and war. Sansa Stark crossed a nonnegotiable line the night she married Ramsay, whether it was her choice or not, and the kennel master’s daughter did not forget. She would not rest until Lady Stark was beaten, and she didn’t just mean beaten down. She made dead with either an arrow right between her eyes or her head on a pike.

There was not a place Sansa Stark could hide from her. She would destroy her life. Myranda did not care quite how it happened; she did not need her to suffer too much.

The kennel master’s daughter just needed Sansa’s cobalt blue eyes completely extinguished from Winterfell. Others might have thought it an overreaction if they were to sense the wicked expression of hatred and venom upon Myranda’s pale features, but everyone, especially the Stark cunt, had underestimated just how much she cared for him.

“I’m coming,” she whispered to Sansa venomously, though she knew the bitch could not hear her, she liked to imagine that in her own way, Lady Stark could hear Myranda.

_I’m coming for you, bitch. Just know it._


	20. Ramsay

**Ramsay**

Ramsay stifled a low growl in the back of his throat as his wife showed no signs of appearing by his side that night at dinner. Though, come to think of it. He had more or less yelled it at her earlier. Seven hells…what had he been thinking? His father had been right. He was nothing more than a bastard, so why should he even pretend to be anything else but? "Where is Lady Sansa? She is running behind," he growled, hating the clipped tone in his voice.

"She will be here, milord," piped up Myranda, standing dutifully behind Ramsay's chair, half her face shrouded in shadow, the other bathed in light, though the kennel bitch had long since perfected a look of perfect indifference.

Though Ramsay was not fooled. The bitch had always been a bad liar. The young lord could see it in her eyes. She was jealous of his pretty little wife, and rightfully so. Even he had been surprised to admit it, but Sansa was much prettier than Myranda, though quite a delicate little thing. Every night since their wedding night, when he mounted her, feeling her inside of him as he moved fluidly with each thrust, she felt…warm. So incredibly warm.

Like her insides were lit with Wildfire, giving Ramsay the warmth that even he knew he had craved since he'd been old enough to learn how the different anatomies worked. He'd fucked his first girl when he was fifteen years old. All of the girls he had lain with since then had felt strangely…cold. Cold and empty. He'd begun to wonder if this were how it was always to be, if it would leave him feeling unfulfilled afterwards, cold, desolate, and…alone.

But now… Sansa was giving him something, albeit however reluctantly whenever he forced apart her thighs so that he could enter her and her incredible heat that she gave off, that he had not known he'd missed. Or wanted.

And now that he had claimed her for himself and himself alone…he could not bear to lose this… _thing_ , that which made him feel so complete. He did not know if what he felt for his lady wife was lust or…or…the beginning of an emotion which he had previously not thought himself capable of feeling, one that Father would chastise him for.

Dare he even think it? " _Love_ ," he sneered, raising his goblet to his lips and smirking at Reek cowering in the corner of the mess hall with the wine flagon, shrouded in the shadows and shrinking into his filthy rags as much as he could for warmth and security, as though he could somehow that would magically make him disappear into air. The wide oak double doors to the mess hall opened and in came his beauty herself. His Sansa Stark. _His_ wife.

"Mine," he breathed lowly, exhaling slowly through his nose as he set down his wine goblet and half-rose from his chair to greet his wife, giving her a gentle but chaste peck on the cheek. He felt Sansa stiffen involuntarily at the gesture, and his face drained of color and his facial muscles tensed as he helped her to sit back down. "Black is a good color for you, milady," he complemented, hoping it would entice Sansa to say something—anything—to him.

He was, perhaps for the second time in his life, being truthful with his words, and so far, the only other being that had the capability of pulling the truth from his thin lips was staring coldly at him directly across the mess hall's table.

Roose. Ramsay swallowed nervously and returned his attentions to Lady Sansa, who had, for reasons unknown to him, chosen to wear a gown of black velvet, her red hair pulled up into an intricate braided bun, though a few loose wavy tendrils had escaped to frame her tired face, and she was looking much too thin for his comfort. Not eating…

"You are looking…well," Ramsay began, lying through his teeth as he spoke the words, hoping his face remained impassive, though the words that tumbled from his mouth in an effort to force his wife to speak more than two words to him sounded strained, even to him. " _Eat_ ," he commanded curtly, not even bothering to wait for Myranda or Reek to fill his goblet again. They did not need to be told what to do. They knew all too well what would happen, or they would likely meet his balled fist. "We did not invite you to dine with us to see you starve."

She scowled, knitting her brows together in a light frown and promptly pushed her plate of venison and bread and cheese away without so much as taking a single bite. "I should eat when you start treating me with respect."

Ramsay felt as though he had slapped her. His brain stuttered for a moment as his eyes took in more dim light streaming in from the windows of the mess hall than he expected as his mind struggled to process Sansa's words. Every part of him felt like it went on pause while his thoughts caught up, his fork clutched in a vice grip. He was half of a mind to shove the goddamned utensil into her pale and perfect hand which was resting dangerously close to his. After a wash of cold, he abruptly coughed once to clear his throat and barely glanced at Fat Walda or at Roose.

When he spoke, he could hear the venom dripping from his words as they tumbled from his mouth, and he balled his other hand into a fist and brought it beneath the table, where it came to settle surprisingly gently on her lap. He barely stifled his bemused grin as he heard his wife's little gasp of surprise as his hands wandered beneath the skirts of her gown, feeling her legs until his fingers came to stroke the folds of her entrance. "Please," he growled.

Sansa stiffened at what he was doing, though Ramsay could tell there was something else in Sansa's cobalt blue eyes, though what it was, Ramsay was having trouble discerning his wife's emotions, what she thought of him. And that troubled him.

Her face was currently one of beauty as her lips parted slightly, and her breathing rate increased, and thank the gods Fat Walda had engaged Roose in useless conversation that directed Father's attentions away from his bastard son and his she-wolf of a wife.

_Good_ , he thought, almost growling with the effort to restrain himself. All he could think of was escorting Sansa Stark back to their chambers and fucking her until his balls were drained dry. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, hard enough to bleed, which sent a flaming, aching fire to his loins. Sansa let out a hiss as the silence of the mess hall lay on her pale white skin like a deathly slow acting poison.

It seeped into her blood and paralyzed her brain, her pupils became large and round as she smacked Ramsay's hand away when he attempted to insert a finger into that place where he ought not, especially not in front of present company, it was…highly inappropriate. Though she could not deny the strange feeling of heat that he gave off, a heat that she thought for a split second, that she liked and wanted more of, the most he was willing to give.

Glancing off to the side, Sansa bit down even harder on her bottom lip at seeing Ramsay's expression. One of malice, one of hate, and…and… _pity_? Self-pity? He felt sorry for himself, so he was taking it out on her, was that it? Ramsay knew his face was one of awkwardness, not even hurrying to save Sansa's feelings at what he was doing, to fill the awkward void between the two of them with a non-committal statement of appreciation or validation.

Sansa hated to think it, but given the two were married now by law, he had every right within himself to attempt to seduce his wife, procure an heir…and…it was working. The void of silence was a cruelty Ramsay inflicted unintentionally, but had he even been aware of it, Sansa believed that Ramsay would not have cared for it a wit.

He reluctantly removed his gaze (and his hand) from Sansa and towards Lord Roose, realizing his father had said something to the pair of them, with the weariness of one who was fatigued with the whining of a small child and raised his eyebrows. "I do beg your pardon, Father. Forgive me." Ramsay bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Lord Roose snorted over the rim of his goblet and exchanged a knowing little smirk with Lady Walda. "Yes, yes, you seem much…ah, shall we say, distracted, my son. I was saying that, Walda and I have some good news to share. Since we're all together." He smirked and looked towards his wife. "Why don't you be the one to tell them?"

Walda nodded, the beginnings of a kind and excited grin forming on her face, though Ramsay could not stop the involuntarily shudder of revolt that traveled down his spine as he looked at the fat cunt that Lord Roose had married. The sunlight stopped at her skin, but the jibes went right to Fat Walda's heart.

All anyone saw was poor self-control, someone so weak willed as the allow themselves to become disfigured. Her gait had become awkward, she felt so hot in the summertime and always she walked in a toxic cloud of judgement. People didn't think she noticed how they turned to stare in the courtyard whenever Walda walked the grounds, some pointed, some didn't care if she did see. Some folks used alcohol as their vice to cope with stress, other men had whoring.

But hers was too obvious to miss, she wore it like a thick overcoat everywhere she went. Walda was well aware of her looks, but how could she walk about the estate of Winterfell with their staff's incredulous stares boring into her? This vice that began in childhood, always being given food when she cried, was now so ingrained. When she was sad, she ate, when she was anxious, she ate, when she was stressed, she ate. All the fucking time, Walda ate.

All that pain, all so visible, all totally ignored.

"We're going to have a baby," she breathed, either completely oblivious to Ramsay's immediate discomfort, or she chose to ignore it, her kind eyes instead choosing to focus on Lady Sansa Stark's face to gauge her thoughts.

Lady Sansa, much to Ramsay's hatred, broke into a kind smile, though her blue eyes looked…victorious.

Seething, Ramsay kept his hands balled into fists in his lap, desperate to control his sudden shaking tremors. His blood felt like ice in his veins.

"Congratulations. I'm very happy for you," Sansa complimented, breaking into a wide white smile, and her smile only widened even more when Lord Roose claimed that Maester Wolkan believed by the way Walda was carrying, that it was a boy.

Ramsay chose silence as perhaps the only response to this unexpected news, feeling his jaw clench in anger and his teeth grinding as his hands gripped his wine goblet, his blue eyes swiveling towards the back of his head in a distressed sense of a headache.

He tilted his head and stumbled from the mess hall, trying to leave the room as he took a long swig of the dark substance that affected him. He sighed as the walls around him became distorted, changing their figures in the blink of an eye. "F—forgive me, Father," he growled darkly, swatting away Sansa's hand as she rose to stand. He did not wish for her to see him like this, though even he couldn't quite explain it.

"If milord will please excuse my husband, he is…tired and needs to rest," Sansa mumbled half-heartedly as she gripped onto Ramsay's arm, her fingernails curling tightly into a fist on his arm. " _Move_ , Ramsay," she whisper hissed into the shell of his ear that once again set the fire to his loins, though even though he wanted to fuck her now more than ever, in any way that she wouldn't fight him on, he doubted he could even make it up the stairwell.

He nodded, knowing all too well that his breaths were the underlying cause of the smell of the alcohol that entered into his nostrils, and his mouth was on fire and sore, burning from the amount of wine he'd poured down his throat. He cleared his throat as he attempted to stand up straight at his full height of six foot three, just to fall back down onto a hard cot in an unfamiliar looking cloister cell of sorts, one that Ramsay did not recognize.

Ramsay stood again, despite Sansa's quiet protests under her breath that he remained seated and staggered towards their bedroom once she had helped up the stairwell, one step at a time, going at a fucking snail's pace up the stairs. He rose in the entryway, staggering towards their marriage bed, gripping onto shelves and tables to the room. The harsh scent of drink could be smelled on his person. Ramsay knew it, Sansa knew it, as did the other staff.

They all saw Ramsay Bolton struggling to keep his balance, and even he knew he was struggling to keep it.

It felt like some strange…out of body experience that he was witnessing for himself. Sansa's voice sounded muffled, as though underwater. His legs refused to work as he commanded them to. Neither did his hands, or his fingers. Somewhere, deep inside, Ramsay knew his mind was sending signals to his body, telling him what to do.

Whether or not it was actually listening to him was a different story entirely. He could feel it moving, and his body could feel it doing what it wanted, despite Sansa's fruitless efforts to help guide Ramsay towards the bed. Could he stop it? He felt like they all knew the answer to that. It was doing as it pleased. He tried to walk out of the chamber, but his legs were telling him otherwise—swaying—left and right. No matter how many steps he took, he was no closer to where he wanted to be. And then…he focused on her face, and things felt a little bit clearer.

Sansa was looking at him with a mixture of pity and sadness in her eyes. She knew, as well as he did.

"I—I'm drunk. So very drunk, wife," he slurred, not even caring that black spots were dancing in front of his vision. "An heir will not save me now," he growled darkly, "not with this fucking news," he shouted angrily.

At least, he tried to say that, but was Sansa Stark even listening to him? Ramsay blinked once or twice as he felt her gentle hand grip onto his shoulder, and with more strength than he'd thought possible of his wife, steer him away from the entryway of their bedchamber and back towards the bed. "Come," she urged quietly. "Sleep…"

Ramsay let out a content little sigh as he allowed himself to be guided towards the bed, his hazy gaze fixated on Sansa as she pulled up a chair to sit next to the bedside. "Wh—what are you thinking?" he gasped out hoarsely.

Sansa sighed, toying with a lock of her hair before deciding to fidget again nervously with her wedding band. "You say that you are drunk but then I look into your eyes and they look sober to me. It feels to me as if you're looking for an excuse, to give me the impression this is something you weren't waiting for, for weeks, to catch me in your nest like spiders do, for you surely are like one, spilling sweet words in women's hearts to get them closer, and then letting them destroy themselves when you turn them away, milord. It is…most upsetting, to hear of this behavior. And it feels to me as if me saying I had a goblet of wine too many is an excuse as well, for I don't want to admit to myself I got caught despite promising myself I would never let you get to me. So, then, we are _both_ drunk, but not really, using drunkenness as an excuse so that we don't have to admit we have the thought of each other running through our veins, so that we wouldn't let each other see who we really are and what we really feel.''

Ramsay startled, feeling like a rabbit that had jumped out of its skin as Sansa made a sudden grab for his arm as she helped him out of his jerkin. The one that was covered in dozens—no, _hundreds_ —of angry little red scars. His heart skipped a beat. Sansa did not react. Did she know already? He had to wonder how much of his past and his mistreatment at Father's hand she knew about, for the walls in Winterfell had eyes and ears, as well as the woods.

"How long?" It was all his wife asked of him. Ramsay let out an agonized groan and closed his eyes, collapsing against the pillow. Sansa did not press him for an answer, which surprised him a little, if he was being honest with himself.

"You know," she whispered, the pads of her fingertips ghosting across the dozens of jagged pink and white lines, knife markings, made by Roose's favorite dagger, as well as a few burn marks too. "Your heart's intentions show you where you are going and the physical scars you bear on his body show you where you have been." She paused, turning away, though Ramsay could not see it because his eyes were closed. "Despite…what you have _done_ ," she growled, though she swallowed hard past the lump in her throat, past her thoughts of anger, "I do not believe you to be a monster, milord. I think that…given the…right circumstances, there is hope for you."

Ramsay felt his eyes fling wide open and he sat upright on the bed, not even minding that he was shirtless. He turned, for the first time, and perhaps really regarded his wife in a new light and took in all of Sansa's appearance. Her tall, willowy frame. Her pale, flawless, and perfect skin that he had left unblemished. Her slender nose.

But in her, Ramsay Bolton saw an unprecedented beauty, and there was a part of the Bastard of Bolton that despised it. He hated and reviled her beauty, and craved it as well, wanting to guard and keep Sansa for himself. That such a celestial like creature could be his wife felt like a dream, one he did not want to wake him. Sansa Stark was perhaps the only good thing in his life, and it was then that her words in the mess hall resonated within.

If he did not start treating her with even a modicum of respect, then Sansa Stark was apt to flee Winterfell again. And that…he could not allow. And in Sansa Stark, his bride, Ramsay Bolton saw nothing else but her beauty. Her eyes, that rich hue of cerulean blue that stole his breath away while looking straight through to Ramsay's soul. Her hair was like a fiery waterfall that tumbled down her back in thick wavy locks, and he let out a content sigh as he felt his hands drift upwards and loosen her hair from its bindings, grabbing a lock of it in fistfuls and pulling her closer, ignoring Sansa Stark's quiet yelp of surprise as she practically fell on top of him, her hand accidentally brushing against his thigh, which re-ignited the growing flame of passion in his now-growing hardness.

Her hands, as they continued to fidget though stilled their movements as Ramsay caught her right hand in his and brough it to his lips for a gentle kiss that sent a shudder of pleasure, however, unwanted, down Sansa's spine, it was enough.

And her mouth…oh, how Ramsay longed to kiss her luscious, pink lips and really feel how she moved in a kiss. Ramsay knew she did not love him back, not in the way that he had hoped, over time, she would come to care for him, but he could not resist. His grip on her wrist tightened as he leaned in a little closer, their foreheads touching. Ramsay heard her audible gasp of surprise, and that only ravaged the whelming ache in his legs more.

Seven hells, he couldn't fight against the thoughts that were going through him now. Sansa's very smell was flooding his senses now… His lips brushed against Sansa's unexpectedly, giving his wife no time to react or pull away, though he thought she would explain her slip in balance at any moment, which was what he expected of her. His kiss to Sansa was fiery, passionate, hot, and demanding. Sansa wanted nothing more than to pull away before she lost her sense of self, but she could not seem to… the moment his lips met hers, her senses had become seduced.

She could no longer think straight, and Ramsay knew this. "Sansa…." He whispered slowly, prolonging each letter of her name as if to savor them. "Would that I were kind, perhaps I might treat you better, but…" He hesitated and looked away, suddenly not certain how to phrase what was on his mind. " _Why_?" he asked.

The Bastard of Bolton hated hearing the dip and the warbling crack in his voice, but he had to know her answer. Ramsay did not need to elaborate on what he meant, and he could tell by the dulling ember in Sansa's blue eyes that she understood what it was that he was asking of her. He shuddered as she reached up her finger and brought it to his lips, the pads of her fingertips tracing the outline of his lips in a way that Ramsay could hardly stand it.

He loved the way her small body melted into his, the way she relented as he loosened her hair and let it tumble down her back in loose waves, holding her tighter, closing off the gap of space between the two of them.

"Because…I do not believe you to be so unkind, milord," she whispered, her gaze unabashed and unwavering. "You have saved my life. Twice. Which is no small feat, so there is some small part of you however minuscule that does care for me, in your own way, I believe, but you would not let yourself truly feel it. It is my job as your wife to make you realize when you are wrong, and in this regard, milord Bolton, you are so very wrong. And drunk."

"You do not approve?" Ramsay's blue eyes narrowed and his grip on her wrist tightened even more. She flinched but dare not pull her hand away, for she knew that if she tried, he would be likely apt to break her hand.

Sansa let out a tired sigh and cupped his chin in her hand, tilting it slightly and forcing him to look at her. "I know that you hate me," she whispered, and suddenly she looked and sounded incredibly small. "Do not try to deny it, but…like it or not, I am your key to maintaining the Bolton's hold over Winterfell. The entire North."

Ramsay stirred, shifting her so that she was practically straddling his lap, both of his hands coming up to grip almost painfully tight on his waist. He chose silence again as an apt response, wondering where she was going with this.

Lady Sansa, sensing his hesitation, continued, biting her bottom lip. "You need an heir," she spoke matter-of-factly, and just that last word was enough to send his blood boiling into a rage at the thought of the fat _bitch_ his father fucked siring a legitimate heir, which would upend his entire claim to the north unless the cunt died. "I can…I can provide that for you," she whispered, leaning down so the ends of her auburn hair tickled his neck.

Ramsay stared, hardly willing to believe what he was hearing. "You would…willingly lay with me?"

Sansa nodded, though he could also tell that she was in awe of her own words, and of her new resolve. "If you start treating me with the respect and kindness I deserve, then…yes." She whispered; her voice barely audible. "I shall lay here. I shan't fight you in any shape or form. I promise not to kick you." Sansa bowed her head and smiled, a ghost of that smile tugging on her lips, and Ramsay could not help but feel drawn to it. He wanted it to stay. As her soft lips stretched into the smile that did not quite meet Sansa's eyes, they were lit with such a familiar sadness.

One that Ramsay was all too used to seeing within his own reflection, though he vehemently attempted to deny feeling such an emotion, thinking it beneath him, though the forced expression of the contrary on Sansa's mouth would have looked quite comical to Ramsay if it did not currently make his heart feel heavy as he laid there. For a few moments, as he stared at Lady Sansa, he was almost quite certain that his wife's expression mirrored his.

It broke his heart, what little heart he did possess to begin with. Suddenly, he did not want her to leave. Ramsay did not want to turn into a random image that floated deep within the recesses of Sansa Stark's memory one day. He did not want to be the smile that squeezed her chest somewhere far away when he died in battle, attempting to lay siege to Stannis Baratheon's fucking armies. Ramsay Bolton did not want Sansa Stark to leave him behind.

He did not want her to go. He wanted Sansa and her beautiful smile to stay. She noticed him looking, and smiled, biting her bottom lip, and sticking it out in a slight pout, quirking a delicately shaped brow Ramsay's way.

"For tonight…can we not at least pretend to be in love?" she whispered into the shell of his ear that elicited a tremor of pleasure as it snaked its way down Ramsay's spine. "Have you ever made love, milord? It is…quite different than your usual methods. Humans are not beasts mating, Ramsay. We are not wild animals. I—I want you to have me. Like you aim to pleasure me. As your wife, _not_ as one of your fucking servant wenches. Like you wish for me to stay," she said, her lips parted slightly as she whispered it into the shell of Ramsay's right ear. "Convince me to stay, if that is what you wish. Plead for me to stay...Please."

It was the use of the world _please_ that did it. Her hand alight on Ramsay's face, moving down past his bare and prominent collarbone. He let out a growl as her gaze drifted downwards towards his chest, at the dozens of angry red scars, courtesy of Roose, on his torso.

Already, his brain felt like it was on fire. Sansa Stark with the hair like winter fire was his angel, his beautiful angel with the fingertips of flame that the Bastard of Bolton knew he did not deserve such a delectable creature in his life.

The cold room already felt warm as Ramsay heard Sansa gasp as her fingertips traced down his hundreds of scars.

"You're staring, Lady Stark," he commented, stifling a bemused smile as she blushed under the scrutiny of his gaze and made to turn away, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks as she squirmed on top of him, attempting to wrench herself off of him and move away, but his hand slid out and slid across Sansa's hips, stalling her movements. "I never claimed that I did not like it, wife," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Ramsay let out a groan as he could hear the hoarseness and desire in his own voice for the angel that straddled his lap on top of their marriage bed, as his free hand not gripping onto her waist slipped underneath the skirts of her black gown, his fingers trailing along her smooth inner thighs.

She was warm already beneath his fingers, her body instinctively reacting to her husband's tender touch. He ran just the tips of his fingers over her entrance, finding a more sensitive point, and he only knew this by the way Sansa reacted to his surprisingly tender touch just then.

"Touch me," he urged, his voice low and husky. "And trust me…" he urged, closing his eyes as Ramsay felt Sansa jerk her hips away with a sound that might have been a cry of pleasure before her voice trailed off quickly. Ramsay growled and reached for that spot again, increasing the pressure until there were tears gathering in Sansa's eyes. "Show me," he encouraged, his fingers tightening on her thighs, raking down alongside her legs. "How you want it," he urged, hearing the desperation in his voice, relishing in Sansa's groan as Ramsay drew his hand away, just too soon, when she was trembling but not quite at her climax yet. "Together," he whispered, as her lips lowered and captured his, albeit not roughly like he was used to doing in times when she would resist him.

But…gently. Ramsay groaned again as she shifted on top of his weight and slowly mounted him, her movements slow but…tender, and almost…loving. The cold bedchamber already felt warm. It was hard for Ramsay to hold back, to make the special moment last.

Wasn't that the way, so caught between the intoxication of his climax and extending a moment with Sansa Stark that he never wanted to end. He loved the way Sansa moaned and writhed on top of him, the beads of sweat gleaming on her skin as his hands fumbled, ripping the bodice as her dress crumpled in a shredded heap on the floor. He loved the way his wife was tight and hot and drew him in.

The way that her mouth was soft as she panted for breath. Slowly, Ramsay ran his hands down her body. Her skin was so flawless, smooth and perfect, soft on her hips, and she cried out only once as Ramsay flipped her beneath him, continuing with his efforts to please his wife the way that she claimed to want, leaving a gentle trail of kisses down her neck and to her collarbones, hearing her whimpers and feeling her body shift beneath his own.

Sansa's breathing became uneven, cracking, and she jerked forward as she climaxed, the stars becoming novae in her blue eyes. She twitched slightly as he drew away, rolling her head to one side, exposing the curve of her neck, the beautiful shell of her ear, shuddering as he gently nipped her earlobe, and whispered something to Sansa.

Something for her ears only, the promise of what was coming next. When she kissed Ramsay, his brain lit on fire and the warmth spread throughout his entire body, the heat that she gave off scorching. After that, he was addicted, he couldn't bear not to be with her, and in the moment, Ramsay felt like he could barely breathe when she was around. Those kisses were his salvation and his torment, his purpose, and his anguish. Ramsay lived for them and he would die with the memory of them on his lips. He dedicated his life to being with Sansa Stark of Winterfell from the moment of that first kiss, for he knew that if he lost her, he would lose himself.

She was the half that made him whole.


	21. Roose-Myranda

**Roose and Myranda**

The Warden was deeply regretting two months into the marriage of Sansa Stark of Winterfell to his bastard son for allowing the union to happen in the first bloody place. He had seen the way the Stark girl had looked at Ramsay, and what was even worse, was how his bastard son had returned the girl's gaze, how he had gotten that look in his eyes, like he wasn't quite sure how to respond as he had allowed himself to be led out of the mess hall. Lord Roose scoffed and rolled his eyes, raising the rim of his cup to his lips and drinking heavily, knitting his white brows together in a frown. It felt like no amount of Dornish red wine could quell the fury welling in his heart. He caught glance of one of the serving girls lurking among the shadows and raised his now empty goblet.

"More wine, please, girl. Make haste now, I have not all night," he drawled slowly, and almost lazily swiveled his head to meet the girl's gaze as she somewhat timidly stepped out from behind one of the stone pillars, leaving the sanctity of being shrouded in the shadows. The Warden of Winterfell allowed a dark chuckle to escape his lips as the girl stepped forward into the light, half of her features bathed in the dim light from the early morning sun, settling on her slightly dirtied face and hair.

"I know you," Lord Roose breathed, and it pleased him to see the serving wench stiffen involuntarily, the heat creep to her cheeks as she almost fumbled the flagon of wine, spilling a little bit at the soles of her leather boots, but immediately stepped back from the Warden and dipped her head in acknowledgement, a curtain of brown hair falling in front of her face, effectively shielding her eyesight from the Warden, who sneered and rolled his eyes.

"You are Ramsay's girl…are you not?" The Warden asked inquisitively, quirking a white brow at Myranda over the rim of his cup. He scrutinized the girl's appearance and had to immediately refrain from scrunching his nose in disgust. How his son, illegitimate or otherwise, could ever lay with such a disgusting little creature as this was entirely beyond him, but then again…he had heard the rumors of his own fat fucking wife behind his back. Lord Roose Bolton carefully watched as the serving girl's entire face immediately flushed a bright red, and she fumbled, trying to take a step back. He coughed once to clear his throat, his fingers curling into claws as he came up to grip the handle of his goblet. "More. Wine." He growled. It was not a request. "And you did not answer me. A servant speaks when a lord asks a question."

The girl flushed and mumbled something incoherent as she hastened to refill the Warden's cup to full capacity. "I…was once, yes, milord, for t'is true," the young serving girl commented, all the while actively averting the Warden's piercing gaze. She bit her bottom lip in a slight pout and resumed her standing position in the shadows. "But my lord Ramsay is a married man, sire, and therefore such a…a dalliance, if it pleases you, would be highly inappropriate. Those days are nothing but wind in the air now, a distant memory," the girl, who the Warden now knew to be called Myranda said. The kennel master's daughter licked her lips, as her mouth and throat had suddenly gone dry at the mention of Ramsay, and the dozens of times they had fucked one another flitting to the front of her mind, but she swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat and clutched tightly onto the tin flagon of wine as she bit her bottom lip in a pout and waited for her Warden to speak.

When Ramsay had dismissed Myranda, effectively cutting her out of his life for good, it hit her hard. His cold words, flat with no emotion laced throughout them whatsoever, were like swords and daggers breaking Myranda's heart apart. The first day without him by her side hadn't even felt real.

A nightmare come true, maybe. Myranda found herself longing to wake up. But that never happened. She had cried. She had cried and cried until there were no more tears left in her to cry. The kennel master's daughter had cursed the gods and the Light of the Seven, wondering how it was possible for the deities to inflict so much pain inside Myranda's chest. She was now utterly alone. Completely, utterly alone, with Ramsay Bolton by her side.

Who would hold her hand, bite her ear in the way that she liked? She was no longer permitted to be a part of the hunting company, either. Who would tell her that they thought she had a pretty face and then fucked her until she could barely walk the next day? Not Ramsay. Not him. Not anyone, anymore. Myranda now lacked that someone who had been with her going on almost a full year's cycle. That same someone who promised her that she would always belong to him, that he was not going anywhere, neither was she. Only now for him to be married to a fucking _cunt_ who was a weakling and did not deserve him.

Myranda felt her jaw clench in anger and ground her teeth together in anticipation, wondering exactly what it was that the Warden of the North wanted from her. Soon enough, Ramsay would forget about Myranda. He would forget the kennel master's daughter the way he forgot the other girls. All the ones he had most likely made similar promises to in order to entice them into his bed.

She briefly wondered if Ramsay had hurt at all when she had left his chambers that day in a fury. When he had claimed that he was no longer happy with her by her side, when he said he had never loved her, and that his sworn duty was to marry Sansa Stark, as his lord father had commanded him.

When in fact, just the night prior, the day before the Stark bitch arrived, Ramsay had let Myranda love him. The night before it all. He had kissed her that night, told her she was his forever. Had Ramsay lied? Or were his feelings able to fade from Myranda so quickly the minute the Stark girl set foot onto northern soil. Myranda knitted her brows together in a frown as she realized her former lover was nothing more than a coward. A coward that Myranda had every right to hate.

She still remembered their last exchange. _"You act as if I've never seen you naked before."_ He muttered with mocking amusement, referring to their brief love affair from days back—in their most tender stages of their… _relationship_ , if Myranda could even call what they had that at all. She simply turned her gaze to him, swift, emanating with resigned sympathy. _"Because you haven't, Ramsay."_

Ramsay Bolton had withdrawn his affections for Myranda right at the start of Sansa Stark's arrival to Winterfell, just as soon as Myranda become addicted to his touch. How quickly Ramsay gave her only ice. Then the Bastard of Bolton had sat there as if he were the victim and waited to be soothed.

Waiting for Myranda to pour in the warmth that the bastard had refused to make for himself. Then, as she drained over the days, Ramsay had taken even more from the kennel master's daughter, accused her more, had ice storms in his eyes more often because of her, more harshly…until she broke. And Ramsay had blamed Myranda for that, citing feelings of insurmountable envy and jealousy. By doing so, Ramsay Bolton had, in a way, absolved himself…and he was a fucking coward.

An unspeakable coward. Myranda clenched her jaw in anger and narrowed her eyes to slits.

She should hate him. She should be incredibly angry with Ramsay Bolton, but she just couldn't. If she was going to be angry with anyone, it was the Stark cunt for effectively ruining her life, by taking away the one good thing that Myranda had left, and now with Ramsay gone, she had nothing.

She _was_ nothing, and that was what Myranda hated about herself the very most. Myranda would have done anything for Ramsay. The kennel master's daughter wanted to be the very best that she could for her lord Bolton. In fact, Myranda was the very best for Ramsay, but her best wasn't ever enough to satisfy him, was it? Especially now that he was fucking married to Lady Sansa Stark.

Maybe that was what hurt her the very most, and what prompted her to develop this idea that had laid dormant within the back of her mind for the last two months, silently watching the pair of them. How Ramsay's eyes would settle upon Stark's when the bitch thought that he wasn't looking.

His easy smiles and gentle teasing strung Myranda's heart and blinded her eyes to his true self. She had been willing to overlook Ramsay's veering lies, questionable behaviors and shady actions, and glanced the other way whenever Ramsay sought out the company of other women more than hers, convincing herself that it was merely that emotion known as jealousy rearing its ugly head.

But when Ramsay strayed, it was then that Myranda knew for certain that he had taken her for a mindless fool, nothing more than a bedwarmer to warm his bed these lonely cold nights of winter. The Bastard of Bolton had made a mockery of the kennel master's daughter's affections and then turned the tables on Myranda, blaming her for straying when she brought up the idea of marrying.

_"_ _Who are you going to marry, hmm?"_ he'd growled into the shell of her ear during sex one morning. _"No one will take you. Just look at you. You're mine, Myranda_." Then he'd bit her ear.

Myranda exhaled a slightly shaking breath through her nose and spoke softly, feeling her voice go dangerously quiet. "There are…rumors abound that Lady Stark herself has learned to grow quite fond of Ramsay, though the girl seems to be most effective at concealing her true feelings for him."

Lord Roose scowled at the mention of Lady Sansa Stark. "The Stark girl has my son smitten; it would seem. I had not thought Ramsay capable of ever feeling any emotions, least of all not _love_." He spat the last word as though it were poison that had settled upon his tongue, bitter, vile, and putrid. Roose glanced upwards, noticing the kennel bitch eyeing him in a rather strange manner. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He had no time for games.

"Speak." His tone was clipped and hard. "Something is on your mind, girl. Tell me what you know of my son and this she-wolf of Winterfell. I know the walls in this place has eyes and ears."

Walls that you put there, milord, is what Myranda wanted to say, but judging by the cold, calculating look in the Warden's eyes, the kennel master's daughter thought better of it, nodding.

"Of course, milord," Myranda mumbled, dipping her head in acknowledgement, brushing back a lock of dirtied brown hair behind her ear. "As I am sure you are well aware, I serve Lady Stark."

Lord Roose Bolton waved his hand and brushed away the kennel master's daughter's opening statement as if to say, _"Yes, yes get on with it."_ He quirked a white brow her way and gave a curt nod. "Go on." His voice was like steel. The Warden of Winterfell's voice was deep, and whenever Lord Roose spoke, every single head in the room would turn. He had that rich, silky tone almost.

Roose Bolton was a man who spoke as if he controlled the entire kingdoms, not just the North, his years of experience and wisdom seeping through his silver words. He would remind you of a stormy day, sometimes one that was good, and other times…not so good. This was a 'not so good.'

Whenever Roose spoke, it was like a low roll of thunder. His words were always soft, but no one ever ignored what the Warden had to say, including Myranda, who quickly nodded, her lips parted open slightly to speak. "She—she made mention the night following their wedding night that…she would rather be married to _you_ , milord, over a man such as your son who is a monster."

Myranda could feel her fingers shaking at her sides, and she quickly balled them into fists and clasped her hands behind her back to control the uncontrollable tremors and conceal it from Roose.

The kennel master's daughter watched with no small measure of glee in her eyes, so much so that she had to stifle her grin behind the palm of her hand, as Lord Roose Bolton became intrigued.

Were he a hound, his ears would have perked up at the false admission, though if he knew the girl's words to be a falsehood, he gave no indication, though Myranda by now, having sat through and participated in countless a flaying of Ramsay's victims and several hunts with the man, liked to think she had gotten to be quite good at reading people, especially looking into their eyes to see.

And now, she could detect no sign that Lord Roose Bolton knew that she was lying to him. Feeling a new sense of exhilaration as Myranda inhaled a sharp breath of cold air as it wafted through the mess hall, she continued. "Milord Bolton shared many secrets with me during our…time," she began hesitantly, biting her bottom lip in a slight pout and toying with the end of a lock of her hair. Intrigued, she watched as Lord Roose Bolton sat up straighter in his chair, lacing his fingers together. The indication he gave off to Myranda was quite clear. _Continue speaking_ , his eyes said.

"He reviles you, milord, for your treatment of him growing up, and has confessed to me on more than once occasion how he would see your head on a pike, and the minute that your son is born, he would seek to end Lady Walda and the babe's life with his own two hands. And as for the matter of his wife…" Myranda hesitated, biting down on her lip even harder as she watched as the briefest flickers of rage clouded through Lord Roose's eyes at the thought of his bastard son attempting something so heinous as to take an innocent life, let alone two. "Lady Stark falsifies her feelings for your son publicly, milord, for she fears for her life. Were she to speak out of turn with Ramsay and tell the man of her true feelings towards her lord husband, well…I think we all have seen Ramsay's temper, sire, and what he is capable of doing to those who displease him so, if they so much as even _look_ at him the wrong way, he cuts off a finger without so much as blinking an eye,"

Myranda purposely allowed her voice to trail off and she looked away. "She fears your son, milord. Sansa sees no other way out of this union but to endure and hope for the best, though I heard her make a passing comment once as she drew in breath that she wished that Ramsay would drown in a lake of ice water and never re-emerge, and she would be more than content with that outcome for her lord husband," she exclaimed. "Lady Sansa has privately confessed to her maids and anyone who will listen that she would feel much safer were _you_ by her side instead of Ramsay and that...that she believes her lord husband will make an attempt on Lady Walda and the baby's life as soon as the babe emerges into this world and draws its first breath."

She let out a breathless squeak and coughed once, folding her arms across her chest as she continued to study the Warden's face. Lord Bolton's wide open eyes reflected everything and saw nothing. Behind them was something more intense than normal thought and his clenched two-day-stubble jaw wasn't a good sign. Myranda had been hoping for, perhaps not outright forgiveness, though she could confess to no one what she was doing, but the beginnings of a tentative reconciliation, an understanding, and a shared animosity for the Stark bitch of Winterfell.

Now she simply hoped to get out of the conversation without giving Roose a reason to hate her all the more. His eyes were a knife in the kennel master's daughter's ribs, the sharp point digging deeper. Where there had been intrigue before was an emptiness, but not in any vulnerable sense. Uncomfortable with the void, he had filled it with an emotion he was more at ease with - raw anger. The unmoving gaze was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing, like he was fighting something back and loosing. Myranda blinked owlishly, for a moment having forgotten why she was still here. It became clear to her that the Warden of the North had bought her story, every word.

She barely managed to repress her immense grin of satisfaction, for as the lie had so easily tumbled from her lips, Myranda knew there was no taking back of her words. Not this late in the game. A game that she was going to win, and the Stark girl would pay for Myranda's misery with her own life.

"Ah, but gods! I am terribly sorry, milord," Myranda mumbled, dropping her voice an octave, and dipping her head in submission and false shame, false sympathy oozing from her words, sounding like poisoned honey. "Would that I have not wished to say anything at all, but…I feared that by not doing so, it would be a crime against the great house of Bolton, treason, and so I…"

Lord Roose gave a curt nod, his eyes cold and calculating. "You did the right thing." Myranda swallowed and returned the gesture, turning on her heel of her boot once he had dismissed her.

Myranda liked to think that she knew better than most that Lord Roose Bolton was not a man to aggravate when it came to the matter of his trueborn heir, who was still another eight or so months away from giving birth. She had seen it once as blue and black patches across Ramsay's pale skin.

The kennel master's daughter allowed herself to give in to the darkness of her thoughts as wicked, vile thoughts of future bruises to impart upon the Stark cunt's body consumed her mind, and for what Ramsay had done, how he had denied her and betrayed her, Myranda thought she would not be sorry to see Ramsay Bolton bleed again, yet again at the hands of his own lord father.

As Myranda strode out of the mess hall and down the corridor to return to the kitchens, as she crept closer towards the servants' quarters, she wore a look of true, genuine contentment on her face. She wished Lord Roose well in his future endeavors, whatever his plans with Sansa would be, with the voice that came so naturally before her plan to do great things like conquer the North.

It sounded like her, but it wasn't. Myranda was already in a transition to become a person that she never meant to be. The bitterness at the thought of her former lover actually in love with Sansa Stark was like rising bile that coated the back of her throat and then as soon as Ramsay was gone, she would have no reason to swallow it anymore. Myranda had been raised in a home of peace, taught by her father to show grace, and forgive others, but when her mind turned to Ramsay, none of it was there.

He had known full well what he had done to her, what he was doing. Myranda had suffered and Ramsay drank it like a fine wine, becoming intoxicated on his own power and lust for his little wife. And now…all Myranda felt was a horrible bitterness, and with each day that passed, it grew like a festering wound that had been left to rot, pushing on the side of Myranda that was serene, enveloping her in toxic darkness.

With any luck, the Stark bitch's days were numbered. And the girl was as good as dead.


	22. Sansa

**Sansa**

Strange. Strange and maybe even a little bit…frightening. These were the first thoughts Sansa had while she descended the tower's stairwell to venture out into the courtyard for some much needed air.

She had to lift the hem of her skirts of her gown a bit to avoid her boot's heels catching on the hem of her gown. Her thoughts were on that of her lord husband and how, in the month following their conversation in the chamber, and he had made love to her for the first time, he had seemed like he was much changed. How it was strange—frightening even if she stopped to think about it a moment.

How Ramsay Bolton went from someone who she had greatly feared and reviled, and who had been something of a complete stranger to her, to then becoming tolerant of them and eventually, as the months passed and the longer the two of them remained in each other's company, completely infatuated by the man, and wondering how it was that she was ever able to live without the bastard.

Because she sure as hell could not imagine being without him now, now that he had changed, or at the very least, was attempting to make the effort for her. Because of her. Just that thought alone was enough to send an overwhelming heat throughout Sansa's entire body, warming her against the cold.

This feeling to Sansa was so strange. It stretched throughout her whole body. It was overwhelming to the young woman, yet somehow, it made her feel complete, and she had a sense that were her mother and father still alive, Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard would have been proud of what she had done. Rumors were already running rampant through Winterfell's halls among the servants how Sansa Stark had tamed the wild Beast of Bolton, that bastard, that demon, that monster. If this was to be the only good thing in her otherwise mundane life she would accomplish, then she was glad to do it, really.

What she felt for Ramsay these days had no bound nor length or depth, it was just absolute. It felt as though she were in a dangerous fire, yet she felt completely safe at the same time. It felt as though when Ramsay had finally let her in, that someone had given him, (and to a lesser extent, her) peace.

Whenever he looked at her and offered that coy little smile that was honestly more of a smirk, Sansa, it felt as though her heart were dancing around in her chest, and a hole she was never even aware that was there to begin with, had been filled, strange though it may have seemed. She felt…light, almost…happy. Like she felt like she could dance on top of the world, yet her heart was constricting, and it felt as if there were no air that was coming to her lungs. Ramsay was her one stability in this place, in this place full of chaos, and now that he was much changed, she rather liked it this way.

Sansa hesitated, biting her bottom lip in a slight pout as she noticed Lord Roose lingering in the courtyard, seemingly gazing interestedly at the white roses in the gardens, which thrived in the winter here at Winterfell, though the moment the Warden sensed he was not alone, his ears practically perked up like that of one of Ramsay's hounds as he sensed her soft footfalls drawing nearer. "And what brings you out here on this damned frigid winter's morning, my child?" he asked.

Sansa swallowed nervously as she approached, fidgeting with her gold wedding band. "The—the cold does not bother me, Lord Bolton. I have come outside for a different reason other than fresh air, milord. In fact, I was hoping to—" she had started to say, but felt her resolve leave her the moment Lord Roose held up a hand to stop Sansa Stark in mid-sentence, thereby effectively cutting her off.

"You were hoping to speak with my son. I am afraid your husband has been called away upon a scouting mission, my dear," he exclaimed quickly, sounding apologetic, though if Sansa looked carefully, as she was doing right now, she could have sworn she saw the briefest flickers of rage dart through his cold cerulean eyes. "My men and our scouts are close to raiding Stannis Baratheon's camps. My son is one of our best and most ruthless, and he will ensure what needs to be done."

"Oh." Sansa felt her shoulders slump in defeat and sag as she lowered her head and nodded in acknowledgement, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks. A loud tolling, mournful sound filled Winterfell's square and the surrounding lands of the estate. "Milord, I am…sorry," she whispered.

For Lady Walda had died during childbirth, the babe as well, never taking its first breath of air, dead upon emergence from the womb. The strain and stress of childbearing had been too much for Roose's wife and she had died from massive amounts of blood loss and sheer exhaustion.

Roose's jaw gave a twitch and he nodded; his hands clasped behind his back. "As am I…" he glanced towards Sansa, something mysterious in his eyes twinkling as he regarded his bastard's wife.

Sansa looked away, exhaling a slow, slightly shaking breath through her nose. For reasons she could not quite identify, Ramsay's lord father frightened her. When she would exhale, a visible puff of air would form in front of her mouth and she shivered, clutching herself as it was growing fairly cold.

Lord Bolton snorted. "You are not dressed appropriately enough, milady. You are apt to catch cold if you wander the grounds…like that," he commented, quirking a white brow Sansa's way.

She glanced down at her dark blue gown, realizing she had quite forgotten her cloak in her haste to appear at Ramsay's side. "I…must have forgotten it," she mumbled. "Father always taught me growing up that to embrace the cold would mean I would survive it. To bathe in ice water daily."

Roose snorted again, seemingly bemused by Sansa's sudden admission. "And did it work?"

Sansa did not bother to hide the small half-smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. "I am here, am I not?" she quipped, biting her bottom lip, and turning away from Lord Roose, not wishing to linger any further in the grieving Warden's presence. "I dare not keep you any longer, milord. You need not hear my mindless ramblings, Lord Bolton. I shall go, but if you should see Ramsay, please—"

"He shall be back in a week, but I shall inform him you seek his company, milady, should I see him before he departs," Roose interrupted, finally turning away from Sansa Stark, and walking away.

Sansa hesitated, watching the Warden of the North depart from the courtyard, his silhouette eventually becoming faint until he rounded the corner and completely disappeared from her sight. She let out a tired sigh and continued her walk in the rose gardens, not entirely sure where she was headed. With each stride as she headed for the godswoods, her mind became clearer, more resolute. She wanted nothing more than to entomb the bad memories she had of Ramsay and the way he had first treated her upon her arrival back home in a thick wall of ice, but the thought of him leaving her on the morrow did not sit well with the Lady of Winterfell. Then, Sansa abruptly paused to close her eyes, and took in a deep breath of crisp winter air, steeling herself to only think of her future.

A future that they would mold, build together, Ramsay and her. Then, with each stride after that, Sansa felt more in charge, in command of her own body, mind, and soul. She was a woman walking towards her own destiny, that rested at the heart of the white heart tree, that lay squarely in _his_ hands.

Sansa heard her audible gasp of surprise before she felt it leave her lips as her bright cobalt blue eyes rested upon Ramsay who stood underneath the heart tree's canopy, shielded from the early morning sun. When he spoke, his voice sounded…quiet, and dare Sansa think it, almost…shy.

"You," he breathed. "There is she is. My wife," he murmured, snaking his arms around her waist, and resting his chin upon her shoulder. "I had thought perhaps that…you would not come for me."

This was also something of a surprise. Sansa had received a written note left on her pillow when she had woken, in Ramsay's own handwriting, telling her to meet him here, to bid him farewell and luck in his efforts to lead the Bolton armies towards Stannis Baratheon's encampment nearby.

"Me," Sansa answered, feeling the beginnings of a soft smile, a genuine one, tug at the corners of her mouth, which quickly evolved into a wide grin as Ramsay unfastened his cloak and laid it upon the ground like a blanket so that they could sit. "Would you care to join me? I know the hour is early, when most are still asleep in their beds, and yet…even these days I do not sleep much, I'm afraid."

One glance over at her husband was more than enough for Lady Sansa. The prominent purple bags underneath his eyes and how he still appeared very pale was enough to confirm her suspicions that he was not sleeping much these nights either. Ramsay appeared to be having trouble finding his voice as he looked upon his wife, and when Sansa looked away to look out into the river, he was more than tempted to cup her chin in his hand and force his wife to look him square in the eyes, forever.

Sansa shifted slightly, turning in his clutches so she could read the emotions on his face. She reached up and traced his lip lightly with the tip of her finger. It pouted slightly, and Sansa had such an urge to bite it, to kiss it, to wrap themselves up in Ramsay's cloak upon the cold winter earth and listen to their gentle breathing, watching the garment ripple like skipping stones and sharing playful smiles. His lip felt slightly chapped underneath Sansa's feather light touches, but she simply could not bring herself to give a damn. Sansa bit her bottom lip and gazed so intently at each divot of Ramsay's lip, as if it could map out ancient seas and warlord's plans for conquest all of the seven kingdoms and tell Sansa everything she did not already know. And Sansa knew in this moment she did not want to look up.

Because if she looked up, she may find herself at the mercy of Ramsay's questioning eyes. Pleading with his wife, begging her to know what exactly it was that Lady Sansa was doing, and she was not at liberty to say because she herself simply did not have an adequate enough answer for him.

"Do you love me?" Ramsay asked, after what felt like an eternity in the heavens, him by her side.

Sansa blinked, not at all having anticipated his question. _Do I love him?_ She felt her lips part open slightly in shock, unable to formulate a response her lips because she was so focused on his. In Westeros, falling in love was considered perhaps one of the worst of crimes. Marriage was an obligation, a ring given, words promised, and that was that, or so it had seemed that way to Sansa. She knew the two of them need only exchange a glance, the lightest of touches, warmth—no more.

Yet for this, there was no forgiveness. She had tamed the wild Bastard of Bolton. For Ramsay, she would take a dagger to the heart, and though that the people of Winterfell could judge what they could not seem to understand, how one of the last Stark women could fall in love with a member of the Bolton family, who had so brutally murdered many of her family members. Such a concept was beyond their simple minds. Sansa wondered how long it took a person to fall in love. A second? A month? A year? It was like asking someone how long it took them to fall asleep.

Some people were asleep the minute their heads lay collapsed back against their pillows. Others, as Sansa had done when she had married Ramsay, lay in wake for hours and it was only when her mind stopped churning for a while that sleep snuck in and dragged her under, as did her feelings for him. Sansa knew as she felt Ramsay's strong hand cup her chin and tilt it upwards, forcing her to meet his gaze and not look away, that Ramsay Bolton had somehow cast his spell upon her—as he had done in times past to many other women.

Sansa did not want to accept or admit to herself that he had done it. For she could not bear to be like all the other girls that Ramsay had so cruelly cast aside and discarded once they had served their purpose. Sansa wanted her husband to feel differently of her. But Ramsay even know as he sat with her, awaiting her answer that she had yet to give, radiated with nothing but an elegant sort of understated grace, and had momentarily captured her enthralled.

Her husband was mesmerizing in every way. The faint glimmer of the early morning sun ghosted over his pale skin and eyes as deep as the heart of the seas. And when those very eyes shifted yet again and finally acknowledged her presence, a surge of understanding had calmed and further mystified her at the same time. From the moment she first laid her eyes on Ramsay Bolton, she knew he was _hers_.

"Yes," she answered simply. Sansa bit her bottom lip in a slight pout in hesitation. She had to know his answer, for he had asked it of her, and now, it was his turn to answer a query of her own. "And you?" She bit down even harder on her bottom lip and waited for Ramsay to answer her.

Ramsay's little strange half smile hesitated, and a glimmer of something mysterious darted through his cerulean eyes.

"When I first met you…I'd already lost my entire world, wife. For how could you hang onto something so…so incomprehensible? If what we share together is love, then I shall keep it. That day in the courtyard…there you stood, in all your natural beauty gifted to you by the gods, and I hated you for it." His tone at first was cold, but Sansa's expression softened as she heard the crack in Ramsay's voice. "There was something then in your eyes that even now, is beautiful. Safe. Warm. I…desire it for myself, for it is something within my own life I feel that I lack. I know what I am. There is no changing me," Ramsay growled darkly, suddenly sounding ashamed of what he was, shuddering, as Sansa's fingers traced underneath his sleeve and around one of the jagged pink lines given to Ramsay by Lord Roose.

"And now?" Sansa prodded, careful to ensure her voice remained soft, her expression neutral, though she knew Ramsay was not fooled. He could see in her eyes that she had steeled herself, prepared fully to be disappointed by the answer he was giving off. "What do you think of me?"

Ramsay hesitated, looking away before returning his attentions to his wife, and he startled. He wondered if Sansa was even aware that while she clung to his arm, she was also quite literally hanging onto his every word. "I feel…home. Do not ask me to explain it in detail, for I cannot. I am...not good with emotions. Th—that night, when we…talked," Here, he cringed, remembering the full extend of their conversation following the news of Walda's pregnancy, "I reached out to the gods for help, and like they had arranged it themselves, I think…you fell for me, just as hard as I for you. When it was just the two of us. I can still recall every single word uttered, the conversation in its entirety, the feeling you gave off. You did not know it then, Lady Stark, but that night…you saved me. So...I thank you."

It was probably as close as she was going to get. Sansa decided that was good enough for her.

Ramsay's voice trailed off as Sansa moved her head closer to his. He sat on the forest floor, back resting up against the wood of the heart tree, frozen from both fear and excitement. She leaned in, so that her forehead rested against his, closing her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered in barely a whisper.

He stared incredulously, though he knew Sansa could not see it with her eyes closed. "For what?" he asked, his voice low and husky. "I have done nothing, wife," he murmured, his voice soft, quiet.

"Yes, you have," Sansa insisted. "You've done everything right. At least, since you started actively listening to me," she added, almost as an afterthought, which earned her a scowl from Ramsay, though his blue eyes were twinkling with just that hint of mischief she had come to recognize over the months.

"How?" There was no mistaking the crack in his voice, or the dip as she recognized their conversation was headed into a possible sensitive topic, as Ramsay rarely discussed his true feelings.

"You have learned to accept me for who I am. Not for who everybody else wants me to be. And…for being you," Sansa whispered breathlessly. Her voice wavered, exhilarated from the tension between them, as she gently leaned in and kissed Ramsay's warm lips, before pulling apart quickly.

Ramsay let out a low growl from the back of his throat, unable to contain himself anymore, and held Sansa's head in his hands and pulled her close into a fiery and passionate kiss. He let out a moan as her delicate hands worked their way around his body, feeling each crevasse, each line along his perfect physique. She let out a gasp of surprise as he gingerly shoved her backward onto the cloak.

Never mind the damned freezing temperatures. Ramsay cherished the heat that Sansa gave off, the only warmth he needed in his wretched, miserable world. She lay on her back at her husband's insistence and wordless urging, allowing his hands and his kisses to do the talking for him, what he wanted of her, as he matched her body's form. Ramsay's hands ventured over Sansa's curved body, exploring. He reluctantly pulled apart at the moment that Sansa's eyelids slowly fluttered open.

They stared at each other, deep into each other's eyes. Ramsay's eyes full of wonder and awe, Sansa's full of curiosity and passion. No words were spoken between them, but a story worthy of them was communicated by just that one look. Ramsay leaned in and laid soft kisses up and down her neck. Sansa let out a tiny whimper of anticipation as Ramsay worked his way back up to her tender, smooth lips. As they kissed, she rolled him over with surprising strength, more than either of them thought possible of Stark, and lay on top of Bolton's strong, muscular form. She ran her lips up his neck and finally landed a loving and intense kiss upon his lips.

This was not at all what Sansa had thought would happen when her lord husband demanded she meet him hear underneath the heart tree, asking her for 'a word,' but she certainly was not going to object. His lips were warm and tasted slightly of wine, but not so much that he was drunk. His hands were gripping almost painfully tight upon her waist and when they finally broke apart for much-needed air, she rested her forehead against his. Ramsay Bolton's smirk told Sansa Stark everything she had ever wanted to know of his feelings.

And so, she smiled back, sinking into his hold. "Sansa?" Ramsay breathed, sounding winded, as though he could not quite believe what he was about to confess.

"Mmm?" she asked, laying a gentle trail of kisses upon his neck before pulling apart to gaze into his eyes.

"Yes." There was no malice in his answer, no hint of deceit, and Sansa did not need to ask him to elaborate.

Her response to his answer to her original query was another kiss. It was good enough for her. In moments, the soft caress had become firmer, Ramsay savored her lips and the quickening of her breath that matched his own as he slanted her head and deepened his kiss as his lips captured hers.

A kiss like this was a beginning, a promise of much more to come.


	23. Ser Aleyn

**Ser Aleyn**

Ser Aleyn furrowed his brow into a frown as the broken plaything of Ramsay's known only as Reek came into his line of sight, looking worse for wear. The young archer was trying not to stare at the boy's nose, but he kept finding his eyes had diverted to it.

One moment, his cold gray eyes were obediently on his rather red-rimmed eyes and then the next they rested on the bloody mess that had been a perfectly ordinary nose only hours ago. So ordinary, in fact, that Aleyn could not at all recall what the young archer's nose looked like before.

"What in seven fucking hell _s_ happened to you, boy?" the young archer asked, appalled at the haggard and bloodied state the wretched foul-smelling cretin had shown up in.

The cretin called Reek merely grunted in response, shaking his head.

Frowning, Ser Aleyn nodded but chose to make no further comment on the matter, crinkling his nose and turning away from Reek's stench. Aleyn made his entrance to his post outside Lord Bolton's chambers late, of which the Warden had summoned Aleyn for some reason. He heard the door of the lord's study, towards the front entrance swing open more loudly than usual as Roose made his entrance, his black robes billowing from the harsh winter breeze. The young archer did not turn around to look Reek in the eye. There was no mistaking that contemptuous look in the Warden's gray eyes that perfectly rivaled a pristine polished knight's suit of armor.

"There you are, Aleyn," Lord Bolton drawled lazily. "I've been searching for you; you did not show up for breaking our fast this morning. Where were you."

It was not a question coming from Lord Roose.

The young archer swallowed nervously, hoping his face remained quite impassive and neutral. "Ah, yes, well…something came up. My apologies, Your Honor. It will not happen again; I can guarantee you that. You've my word," Ser Aleyn mumbled, averting his gaze, hoping his expression remained impassive. That 'something' had been one of the girls, Collette, who had used to belong to Ramsay, who had born a surprising resemblance to Sansa Stark, who had gotten that all too familiar glint in her eyes that Ser Aleyn had come to recognize that she wanted to bed him, and Aleyn had relented, but only if she married him first, and so, they married in secret.

It had been that way for the last few months, and during their dalliances, the archer was surprised to learn he had a bastard son from another kitchen wench.

Lord Roose furrowed his white brows into a frown and scowled heavily. "Ser Aleyn. I am afraid I harbor ill news towards matters surrounding Stannis Baratheon's armies and the readiness of our troops. My son will be leading our next attempts to lay siege to his camps," spat Warden Bolton angrily, bitterness in his tone.

Ser Aleyn's good-natured odd little smile as he recalled the moment in the woods when he had first met Sansa Stark was immediately wiped off his face as the Warden's frown deepened and his brows knitted together in confusion as the Warden continued his relentless pacing of the corridor, his gaze settling upon Reek's pale, ashen face, and his various bruises and cuts. Lord Roose frowned. "What happened to you, boy, if I may ask?"

His baritone voice sounded bored, though if the archer wasn't mistaken, and about these things he usually wasn't, a flicker of intrigue passed through the Warden's gray eyes as he silently regarded young Reek, clasping his spindly fingers together as he waited for an answer.

The one the rest of Winterfell called Reek shuffled in his spot, wincing as he did so. Every move looked like it hurt. "Y—your son, Your Honor, did this to me," he growled, and there was no mistaking the sudden shift in the lieutenant's voice as he grew angry, his face blotched red with color as it flushed in utter malice.

Bolton, who had entered into his study and poured himself a goblet of red wine from a decanter that lay in wait upon his desk, nearly spat out his wine and choked, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. " _What_?" The Warden snarled, baring his teeth as he looked over Theon's wounds, growing angrier at the very idea that Ramsay could have provoked and done such a thing to a former member of the house of Greyjoy. "Speak. I thought I had instructed my son not to lay another hand on you."

When Roose bade you speak, you were instructed to do so freely. Ser Aleyn frowned, and Reek noticed.

Reek quickly nodded eagerly, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so, evidently relieved that the Warden had, for the time being, taken his side. Reek spluttered, his face paling in anger as he struggled to think of a retort. Fuming, clenching his jaw, he pointed towards his blackened eye. "Is _this_ not enough of an answer for you, Ser Aleyn?" he bellowed, striding forward, albeit with great difficulty, until the tip of his nose almost touched the archer's. "I am a soldier betrayed, milord. Your bastard husband cut off my fucking cock, took a few of my fingers, and my dignity. For that I seek vengeance. Winterfell is meant to be a place of prosperity in the North, a place of hope and peace, and for violence to occur within her walls, by your own son's hand, nonetheless, is an egregious crime that must be answered for, and you know as well as I do, milord, that you know this to be true."

Bolton's frown deepened if such a thing was even possible. The former Greyjoy standing in front of him did have a point.

However, Ser Aleyn was right. Ever since the bastard's wedding to Lady Stark, Ramsay was much changed, and not necessarily in a way that was for the better, and then there was the simple matter of his own growing desires for the little winter rose, that she-wolf with the hair like winter fire, and his own bastard son's life to end in days to come. Roose stifled a growl and slammed down the flagon of wine on his desk, nearly spilling wine in the process.

"Very well," he said, at last, sounding resigned. "But you must bring me proof of Ramsay's misdeeds and you will bring the Stark girl to me this very evening. You do this for me, and you shall bear the name of Theon Greyjoy once more. No more Reek."

Reek mutely nodded, and Aleyn, who had perfected his look of 'casual indifference,' though internally, his mind was screaming at him to take his horse and head for the godswoods to warn the girl of the danger he had played a part in placing her in the path of. This was not good at all.

With Bolton's attention turned towards her, the girl was going to have to be careful. He did not know exactly what had happened in the woods with Sansa and Reek when Ramsay and his hounds had been hunting them all, the words exchanged between the two, but there was more to this than Reek was letting on. _But perhaps the girl will talk to me later_. It was worth a try. He owed her that much, at the very least.

"You will bring the Stark girl to my quarters at once following my bloody fool son's departure, Ser Aleyn," Bolton ordered, no warmth in his tone as he turned towards the fire roaring in the hearth. "Make no mistake. I want her _alive_."

There was something about that little prickly redheaded girl that set his blood boiling. Heathen witches, all women were, no matter how kind they were. It mattered not any longer if the child was one of the last of the great Stark family. All it took was one wrong turn on the trail for your path to be set in stone, and the young woman had chosen her path a long time ago, whether Sansa Stark knew the truth yet or not. His teeth gritted in anger, he turned back towards Aleyn.

Ser Aleyn, it did not escape the Warden's attention, had paled considerably and one hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. He doubted the Greyjoy boy's words. "Milord Bolton, I would gladly take off this cretin's tongue, for I think it must be hung in the middle so it can wag at both ends," spat Ser Aleyn.

He did not know for sure what happened between the fair Sansa and Theon, but whatever it was, he knew the lieutenant was lying. He'd never been particularly good at hiding it. At least, not from Theon during the short time of knowing the younger man, but it was especially troubling that the Warden believed Reek's words. Bolton was more silent than ever despite a tensing body. It sickened Aleyn, how Reek could look the man square in the eye like this and not bat an eyelid out of nervousness.

Bolton lazily dismissed Aleyn's claims. "And what good would that do us, archer? I am inclined to believe Theon here is telling the truth. If what he says is true, then I am…most displeased with my son's actions and I must pay the boy a visit to rectify said behavior before he leaves on the morrow. I can assure, it shan't happen again."

Reek nodded in acknowledgment. "Thank you, milord. The girl shall be brought to you. I swear it."

"See to it." Roose chortled, chuckling at the boy's abrasiveness as he poured himself another glass of red wine. "Might I ask you a question, archer?" When Aleyn nodded, pursing his lips into a thin line, he continued, taking a seat in his armchair and turning it so it faced the fire in the hearth, and though the flames danced and flickered in various shades of oranges and reds across the man's still smooth and taut features, it did nothing to warm the ice-cold stare Aleyn found himself almost immediately subjected to as the Warden shifted in his chair to face him.

"You may, sir," Ser Aleyn replied graciously, bowing his head.

"I cannot allow my own son to get away with what he has done," here, Roose spat the word as if it were poison that had settled on his tongue. "He beat one of your own kind, for Theon Greyjoy was a soldier once, Ser Aleyn, much like you are now."

"And…" Ser Aleyn hesitated, not sure if he wanted an answer to his question, though seeing no other choice but to ask it regardless. "What would you have us do about it, sir? And what of Lady Stark? What are…your intentions?"

Roose chuckled darkly, studying the dark-haired archer over the rim of his goblet of wine as he drank heavily. "What do you do with a bone after all the meat is gone? Why, you feed it to the hounds, of course, my dear boy. That's all this is, son."

Aleyn blanched, feeling like he needed a moment to compose himself. This was definitely not good. Sansa Stark was in danger. His wife, Collette, wasn't concerned with it. His wife could handle herself. He could arrange for her and the child to flee Winterfell underground using the crypts, if only as a temporary means of keeping them safe, though it might mean being away from them for however long it would take for Warden Bolton's ire to quell.

Aleyn frowned. "You would mean to watch your own _die_ , milord? But what of the king's order?"

At his captain's questioning, the Warden airily brushed away the man's concerns with a wave of his hand. "Let me deal with our king, Aleyn. I would flay the girl if it please you, Ser Aleyn, for what my son has done to your colleague over there," Bolton remarked coldly, jerking his head towards Theon Greyjoy's silhouette, where the injured man faithfully stood at attention guarding the door. "Only death may pay for life. And as for the matter of your own life… A life which was very nearly stolen from you in the godswoods, was it not," Roose growled angrily, seething, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "This Stark girl has very clearly somehow managed to inflame my son's thoughts of lust and malice, of which I have done my absolute hardest to quell over the years as I raised him, but…I can see that it is not enough. While she has managed to tame the beast within, I fear Stark has made my son too soft. I have a feeling the gods has put this girl in my son's path, to test Ramsay's resilience and patience. It would seem that, despite my best efforts, somehow, the boy has failed. He is grown in body, but he still in so many ways has the mind of a child. He is naïve, and for him to already possess those darkening thoughts and urges, is something that I simply cannot allow, Aleyn. No matter what."

Soon, Warden Roose Bolton asked a question of Aleyn, which made the archer furrow his brows in confusion. "It would be a pity, Captain, for your precious little tavern bitch …to befall an… _accident_ , shall we say? Oh, yes," he added, a wicked sneer forming at the edges of his mouth as he took another swig of wine. "I know all about your unnatural union with that accursed little tavern wench, boy. But unfortunately, the new regulations put into place by our king prevents me from interfering in a way that he deems 'unnecessary. Truly, it is a pity."

"What….?" Aleyn was floored. _How_? How could Bolton have known about Collette? He had thought they'd been careful. _Not careful enough_ , he thought venomously, grinding his teeth in anger until his jaw was rooted shut. "Milord, I don't—"

"SILENCE!" Bolton bellowed, curling his hand into a fist, and slamming it down on his armchair, the noise of which seemed to reverberate off the walls of his massive study as his shout echoed. His icy glower felt like a thousand arrows in Aleyn's chest. He threw back his head and let out a short, bark-like laugh that was cruel. "Did you _really_ think that I did not _know_? I am no fool, Ser Aleyn. I have known about your little… _union_ , now, for months. Imagine my surprise when I ran into a little boy at the stables one morning that bore a striking resemblance to you. You fucked that kitchen cunt and got her pregnant, and now…you've responsibilities, my boy. But your bastard son has the wench's eyes. There is no mistaking that color, archer. It was then I knew that you have betrayed my trust. I am a kind man, and I am a patient man, ser, you ought to know this better than most guards in my service, and I have decided to give you another chance to repent for what you have done. Consider this your atonement, Aleyn. I have eyes and ears everywhere. _This estate_ ," he breathed, his gray eyes becoming more and more unhinged as the moments passed, "is _mine_ , and I will not allow it to continue to be overrun by hordes of _filthy_ _vermin and I will not allow it to fall into Stannis's hands._ If you should mean to save your wife and bastard child, then you will tread down this path by assisting me in the…disposing of my son. It would be most unfortunate if my bastard son were to…befall a tragic accident. I have reason to believe at his own hands, Lady Walda and my newborn son were _murdered_ ," Roose growled. "Hear me, Ser Aleyn. I am a man of my word. I can be an incredible friend to you, but I can also be a terrible enemy. Choose wisely. I swear as God as my witness that your entire family shall go _free_. Aid me in this crusade to free the North of these wretched fucking Baratheon armies, beginning with my own son, and I could give you what it is you wish. You seek a better life for yourself and wife. Your wife and child will survive. However, if you seek to continue to conspire against me, Ser Aleyn, then I will not take it against you personally. But know this: either way, I could hang you for treason. It is your choice. You make the call," he said dryly.

Aleyn froze, his mind feeling like it was reeling a thousand miles a minute as it struggled to process all of the information that he had just been fed. He did not like the direction this conversation was headed one archer and knight prided himself on being a man of valor, of honor, and what the Warden was suggesting he aid him with entirely went against that code of honor. To betray Ramsay, who had become like something akin of a brother figure to him over the last two years, and all for the sake of capturing one woman who, it would seem, from what limited information he had on her, had fallen in love with the Bastard of Bolton and changed the man?

Ser Aleyn bit his bottom lip, curling his gloved hand in a fist to prevent himself from lashing out and striking at something in pure anger. The Warden bade for the captain to take a seat in the chair opposite him. Reluctantly, Aleyn obliged, easing into the chair as well as he could.

A bit of a difficult task in a full suit of armor, not to mention his cloak.

"What promise could I possibly give to you that would be of any value to you, milord?"

"I had your position reinstated, did I not? Ramsay was set to flay you, but I talked him out of that. Following the…incident a few months ago with your new precious little wife, I was content to let you rot for the remainder in your days in our dungeons below, but given that you are the best archer in my company of men, I think that I can offer you a second chance to redeem yourself, Ser Aleyn."

Roose offered a morose little smirk and chuckled at the bewildered expression on the young archer's face. "Pledge to me your will, Ser Aleyn, help my son find the peace in death that he cannot find in life, and I can assure you that your family will have safe passage out of the North if they value their lives. That, I think, should be the reason and will enough for you to cooperate, would it not?" he added coyly, pouring himself a goblet of wine.

Aleyn felt a strange enveloping of cold wash over his entire body, as though he had been doused in ice water. He could not understand whether it was through pure adrenaline or fear that had begun to well deep within the pit of his stomach, but he knew as he looked at the Warden, that he wanted this. The beauty of vengeance. Make Ramsay pay. If killing Lord Roose Bolton's bastard son and enduring Ramsay's wrath temporarily until he was dead meant, however, that his new wife would be safe, then it would seem that the captain had no other choice but to obey.

Once more, Aleyn's lord had asked for his cooperation, however much of a wicked man Bolton might be, a stupid man, he was not, and the Warden would know if he were being deceived. So, for now, at least, Aleyn would have to go along with it.

Aleyn finally gave the curtest of nods with his head, a lock of his golden hair falling over his eyes, effectively shielding his face from the Warden's view. Roose was soon on his feet as he nodded at the captain, who had all but touched Ser Aleyn on his shoulder to indicate that their conversation was now at its conclusion and that he was free to go. The archer slowly rose from his chair and made to follow Theon Greyjoy out in the hallway, but before he passed through the study's entryway, Bolton called out.

"Ser Aleyn. A moment. They say that love is the death of a man's duty. What say you on this matter, Aleyn?" Roose Bolton's voice was cold and sounded thoroughly unmoved.

Aleyn felt like his heart was pounding against its cage, threatening to escape like one of those black ravens that sometimes delivered messages from other parts of Westeros to the Boltons'. The Warden was throwing the captain a strange knowing little smirk that Aleyn was not quite sure what to make of just yet.

Hating himself for what he was about to say, Aleyn ground his teeth in anger, clenching his eyes shut and turning his head away.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, and he whisper-hissed his next words to Roose. "I have no regard for the man who tortured Theon Greyjoy, milord, and countless others." _Lies_ , his conscience was screaming at him. _A lie and you know it. Serving the Bolton family is all that you and your family have known in life. If you betray Ramsay Bolton, you will die._ Aleyn could tell just by one look that the Warden did not quite believe him, so he elaborated for further effect. "I would see your bastard son hang or burn for their crimes, Warden."

"Very good." Roose still had not smiled, unimpressed. He gladly watched with a blissful satisfaction as his head archer of the guard's face fell instantly. "And what of Sansa Stark, Ser Aleyn? What are your feelings on _her_?"


	24. Sansa

**Sansa**

Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown as she watched Maester Wolkan pace the floor of his healing chambers, becoming increasingly annoyed with the man's persistent habit. She had requested this appointment in private, wishing to speak to the man of a strange bleeding she had been having that ceased to let up over the course of the last several days, and to see the maester in such an agitated state, well…she wished he would just come outright and say whatever ailed him.

"If it persists, come to see me again, child," Maester Wolkan, beads of sweat forming on his brow. "Such bleeding like this is not quite…normal, and if it is what I should suspect it to be, then ensuring you receive the appropriate treatment for it is absolutely critical to ensure your health and the health of the…" he began hesitantly “Especially if it is not your moon's blood. There is every possibility that you are with child, milady," he said, at last turning to meet his gaze to meet the stunned Lady Stark's gaze, to see her lips parted open in shock slightly, her hands twisting painfully together, digging into her lap.

She glanced around at Wolkan's workspace. The maester and healer was clearly obsessively compulsively neat, and it showed. Row upon neat row of dustless jars labelled in the same neat script with even strokes of the quill, every label facing forwards. On closer inspection they were categorized according to the content and then alphabetized within their categories. Brooms, cloths, and feather dusters lay stacked up against the wall.

Thick oak chopping boards lean against the white painted wall, an array of shiny stainless steel knives from scalpels to huge chopping blades are lined up next to a chipped basin on a rickety wooden old table intended for washing of the hands and the cleansing of equipment, in order of size, each one looking cut-throat sharp. Golden old fashioned weighing scales with an assortment of weights sit next to the knives, and Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat, wishing for water.

She had done it, then. She was hopefully to sire an heir for Ramsay, a healthy baby boy. Or rather, _they_ had done it. Sansa swallowed again, her throat feeling quite dry, and immediately wished that she had a chalice of water nearby. She licked her lips, trying to wet her mouth, her tongue swiping across her lips again as she struggled to find the right words.

"Th—thank you, Maester Wolkan," she stammered, the heat creeping to her cheeks as she rose from the man's examining table. "I shall return to you if the bleeding persists, and of course, I shall inform milord husband at once. I am certain that he will be overjoyed to hear the news, as will his lord father, I hope." She dipped her head in acknowledgement and made to head for the door, the skirts of her dark blue gown rustling behind her as she moved, when the maester called out to her.

"Lady Stark." Something about the man's tone gave Sansa paused, and she froze, a hand outstretched towards the door. She bit the inside of her cheek as she turned around slowly, but much too slowly to be normal, and she was surprised as she lifted her chin to meet the maester's gaze at the look of hardness within the man's eyes. He was…angry, though she suspected his sudden shift in attitude was not directed towards her.

"Were I you, I would take much better care to whom you divulge your information to," the aging maester breathed. He cast his eyes to the left and right, as though expecting someone else to listen in.

Sansa blinked owlishly at the man. When she spoke, her voice trailed slowly, like her words were unwilling to take flight. There was a sadness in her eyes, the blue entirely too glossy. "You think that he would not be pleased with this news?"

Maester Wolkan hesitated, clasping his hands together and bringing his arms to rest behind his back as he strode towards Sansa Stark. "Lord Bolton has…not been the same since the passing of his wife and child. He is…much changed, and not necessarily in a way for the better. My dear, you must take better caution to whom you reveal your news. Tell your lord husband if you wish, and ensure that Ramsay tells no one else," he whisper hissed it through gritted teeth, laying a hand upon Sansa's shoulder, and giving it a warbling little squeeze, though it was difficult given how much his hands shook.

Sansa stared, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing from one of Lord Bolton's most trusted healers. "You think that he would try to…" her voice cracked and trailed off as she was unable to complete her sentence, but she didn't need to.

"Yes." His one-worded answer was more than enough for Lady Sansa.

The moment she realized she had misinterpreted Lord Roose's actions, his words, his expressions for the past several months during her time spent in Winterfell with the Bolton's…as if he had been speaking some language that she could not quite understand…the moment her words failed her a she met Wolkan's gaze was the moment that her heart broke, and then it all became clear to her of Lord Bolton's intentions.

Yet, at the same time, Sansa was able to establish it as a good breaking, for if she could learn more, she could divulge what little information she would be able to learn to Ramsay, and perhaps, maybe, just maybe, he could take her away. This was a good breaking. The type that she knew would lead to healing in its own time and new ways onward, sometimes, the loss of words was enough. Sansa swallowed hard past the lump in her throat and finally found her voice.

"Maester Wolkan, I know that milord Roose trusts in you completely, but if you know something—anything—that would be detrimental to either my health or my lord husband's, I should have you tell me completely." She bit the inside of her cheek and fell silent as she waited for the maester to answer her, though it looked like he was about to do so with no small amount of conflict that was currently waging war within his mind. "Tell me," she urged desperately, though not unkindly. Sansa watched as Maester Wolkan glanced upward, his thin mouth pursed but slightly open and loose.

His eyes were fixed as if the wizened old man was looking at something behind Sansa's head, perhaps a spot on the wall, it was hard to tell. She exhaled slowly through her nose in slight agitation and called his name.

Maester Wolkan blinked once, twice, three times, and then refocused. "It should not be my place to speak ill of your lord husband's father, however, I fear for Lord Roose's sanity, Lady Sansa. The man is much changed, not himself, and I overheard him talking to someone the other day, one of his soldiers, I think, I did not catch his name, however, I believe he is one of the ones intended to leave with Lord Ramsay on the scouting party to head towards Stannis Baratheon's encampments. I fear an attempt on his life will be made. I tell you this and no one else because I believe you to be the sole individual within this entire estate that Ramsay will listen to, milady."

Sansa pursed her lips into a thin line and curtly nodded, practically feeling the color drain from her already pale face, and her stomach lurched, and she thought she might vomit, though she knew it had naught to do with her new condition. These many months in Winterfell, most of them brutal, some of them beautiful, she had thought she had earned Ramsay's father's trust, for she had never strayed from Ramsay, betrayed, or abandoned his bastard son, not once in their marriage.

Sansa believed that she had shown her bastard husband's father over and over that now that Ramsay was changed, that she would do anything in this world to keep Ramsay safe, yet still, his father mistrusted Sansa, and disliked her even more for marrying Ramsay, and yet, she felt his disdain towards her was unwarranted, for Roose had been the one to agree to it in the first place.

Now, as she heard the words that she knew to be truth from Wolkan's lips, Roose had shown Sansa (and to a lesser extent, Ramsay!) his hand, the game that he was playing at, all Sansa felt was a horrible numb betrayal that started within her chest and created a horrible, deep sinking feeling, a pit in her stomach that sent swells of nausea throughout.

Roose had misread Sansa during her time here within Winterfell's walls, and then felt bitter, angry, though all the while, Sansa had been doing what she could to ensure her survival while she lived underneath the House of Bolton, the flayers. Sansa swallowed nervously, feeling that her heart still beat, feeling like it was pounding against her chest, but against a chest that now felt empty and hollow, for the thought that a father could inflict such cruelty upon his own son, bastard or not, was beyond Sansa Stark's ability to comprehend.

Perhaps it was because she had grown up with her own parents and raised in a loving environment, taught to forgive, and show grace and mercy towards those both more and less fortunate than she. Lady Stark blinked, her eyes still seeing and her ears still hearing the faint whispers of Maester Wolkan's voice in her ear, yet the world that seemed so close around her yet seemed so far away. Sansa could feel her mind beginning to shut down, unwilling to think anymore.

Perhaps this was shock at Maester Wolkan's confessing at overhearing Roose's conversation as he ought not to have, Sansa could not be entirely certain. All she knew in regard to this unfortunate development was that she had to find a way to communicate with Ramsay before he left on the morrow.

_I must go to him. Track him down if I must…_ Sansa swallowed, thinking it a miracle from the gods above she could even so much as find her voice in all of this. "Th—thank you, Maester Wolkan," she murmured courteously, offering a curtsy in response. "I will not forget your bravery. I thank you for telling me the truth. I do not yet know how, but I will ensure that milord husband learns the truth immediately."

The healer gave a curt nod of his head, his expression quite grim, and he turned his back on her. "It is…not my place to say, and you did not hear this from me. But…" Maester Wolkan clasped his hands together and folded them in front of his middle. "Were Lord Roose not currently in his position of power, it should be you and your lord husband leading the people of the North. Now that your husband is also much changed, admittedly for the better," Here, he allowed the tiniest ghost of a smile to dance across his face, "in no small part thanks to you, Lady Stark, and your efforts to tame the mad beast within, I think that there is hope for Ramsay, and were it up to me, I would see you both rule Winterfell in Lord Roose's stead. Lord Roose would watch the entire North burn to the ground if it meant that he could be king of the ashes. I do not believe the North will last while under his reign."

Sansa nodded, blinking back briny tears, and swallowing hard. To hear such words coming from someone here in a place that at times still felt so foreign to her despite the fact that it was and always would be her home, was incredibly validating. She took a step forward and clasped her hand over Wolkan's and gave it a gentle squeeze, careful to be mindful of the old man's shaking limbs.

"I will do what I can, Maester Wolkan, for you and so many others in this place have been kind to me, when others have not. I long to take back my home too, though while Roose remains seated in power within Winterfell's walls, I fear there is not much hope for my lord husband or myself. I have heard the rumors of his ruthlessness," Sansa whispered, feeling her heart sink to the pit of her stomach as she allowed the words to tumble from her mouth unchecked, though the time for careful words in current company was now long gone, "And be that as it may, Maester Wolkan, for I cannot make good on my promise yet, I will ensure Ramsay receives your message, and I can tell you already now, he will want proof of his father's misdeeds. Ramsay is a man of action, but he will also want to see evidence. I do not know what course of action my lord husband would take in regard to the matter of dealing with his father, but…he needs to know."

Maester Wolkan nodded, smiling, though the smile did not quite reach his eyes. Sansa dipped her head in acknowledgement, offered another fleeting little curtsy, and wrenched open the wide double doors of the healer's chambers, and gingerly stepped out into the hallway, careful to close the door behind her. Sansa barely felt the walk back towards her chambers. It felt as though the millions of tired thoughts were swirling around in her mind.

She was walking unusually slowly, almost…stiffly, as if she were in some sort of magicked trance, as if her mind were struggling to tell each foot to take the next step. It was as if she were in a stupor, as if someone gifted in the arts of black magic had placed her under a spell, and Sansa felt as though her body no longer was taking directions from her mind. Sansa shivered, wrapping her arms around her middle as she hurried, her red tresses fluttering in the cold breeze that wafted through the drafty hallways. Her blue velvet gown seemed to cling to her body, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Sansa could feel the cold wind stroking her skin, wanting to rip her dress off of her and ravage her as though she were winter's enemy. As a few teardrops appeared in the corners of her eyes as her mind ruminated and mulled over the healing maester's words and the revelation that she was possibly expecting, Sansa continued walking, heading towards the godswoods, where she had last spotted Ramsay, not stopping for anything. Her determination to reach Ramsay drove Sansa Stark down the stairwell and out into the courtyard.

Sansa paused at the edge of the woods, biting the inside of her cheek and then her tongue as she struggled to determine which way Ramsay and his scouts might have gone. For he had not exactly been forthcoming with Sansa in regard to his plans to lay siege to Stannis's camps.

He had been… _distracted_ , and she the main cause of his distractions. She sighed in frustration and froze. She gulped nervously as a large, towering shadow engulfed her from behind. Sansa dared not turn around, for she believed she knew who it was that lingered behind her like that of a vicious predator stalking its prey. _Lord Roose_.

The only announcement of Roose Bolton's arrival was a slight drop in the air temperature and the descent of absolute, eerie silence that in its own strange way, was deafening. Without even having to turn around or part her lips to speak, Sansa knew he was there. She recognized the soft susurration of Lord Bolton's footfalls. She could feel his presence, pale in the shadows of the godswood. His voice came, high-pitched, cold, and quite calculating.

"Where are you off to, little wolf?" Sansa swallowed nervously, wanting to spin on the spot before Roose could vanish from her line of sight, to take in the bastard's betrayer's face once more, so that she could paint a portrait of it for their wall in their marriage chambers, but instead, she bit her tongue hard enough that the coppery, tangy taste of blood formed and settled upon her tongue, though it tasted to her quite bitter. Perhaps it was Roose's betrayal she tasted.

"A walk," she answered coldly, feeling her back muscles tense and stiffen involuntarily as one of Roose's spindly fingers alighted upon Sansa's exposed neck, cold as a cadaver. He ran it from behind her ear to the edge of her gown's neckline, and audibly sniffed like a wine connoisseur taking in a fine Dornish red wine. Then he withdrew.

"The hour grows late and the night cold. A noblewoman such as yourself ought not to be wandering out late. You never know the types of men you will run into." Roose's tone was cold and flat, his gray eyes listless.

Sansa swallowed nervously as the Warden of the North approached her. Through a swirl of sickening fears came Lady Catelyn's voice, casual and light. As usual, Sansa could not hide her problems for more than a few seconds, but what more could she do? The fear traveled in Sansa's veins but never made it to her facial muscles or her pale skin. Her complexion remained pale, her blue eyes steady as her gaze remained unabashed and unwavering as Lord Roose advanced upon his bastard wife, a ravenous, slightly unhinged gleam in his gray eyes.

The man's eyes reminded Sansa of ashes and smoke billowing in the wind, coming from a wildfire that burned everything to the ground in its path. They were intense, coming from that fire that burned deep within Roose Bolton's soul. For a moment, a moment that Sansa cursed herself to the gods for, she lost herself in Ramsay's father's eyes. They glistened brilliantly, cold, and metallic, rivalling the most excellently polished suit of armor. The sclerae that surrounded them were pristine, untouched by red. His eyes were pure. They were cold. They were beautiful.

Before Sansa could stop herself, the words poured out of her mouth before even she knew what was transpiring. "You mean…types of men such as yourself, milord?" She spat the words, hatred, and black vile spewing from her tongue, poisoning her thoughts until she could envision nothing but flashes of the man's violent, bloody death.

Hatred, Sansa knew, was the devil's path, and she should leave its ash-strewn surface without a single footprint. Sansa inhaled a breath of cold winter air and exhaled a slightly shaking breath as she slowly backed into something hard, and let out a breathy squeak, realizing the Warden of the North had entrapped her against one of the rose garden's stone column pillars. There was nowhere for her to run, and she could see no one coming to her aid.

She bit the inside of her cheek and wondered if now was the right time to reveal her hand, that she knew of Roose's betrayal, though without Ramsay here by her side to protect her, she wondered what good it would do her. If she confessed, Roose might just kill her, and then do away with Ramsay without so much as batting an eyelid. Sansa swallowed nervously and she felt the knife before she saw it.

She looked into the eyes of its wielder, this man who was her lord husband's father and proclaimed, in his own way, to love his bastard son, but now, she knew this not to be the case, for there was no love in this man's heart. The eyes that were once filled with so much determination and purpose, at least she felt it had been the case upon her arrival to Winterfell, given she was their key to unlocking the North and ruling its stead for the next thousand years or so if they played their hands right, were now replaced with such a bitterness and hatred, and something else that the young woman could not identify.

Sansa decided that she did not want to. The knife that Lord Roose Bolton held in his hands sat precariously against Sansa's skin, against the pale column of her throat, soft enough not to pierce her neck, but hard enough to enforce the much older man's intended message: Cooperate or else. The harsh metal should have been cold against her bare skin, but her numb body could not feel a thing except for the excruciating pain of Lord Roose's betrayal.

There was no way that Lord Bolton could have known where Sansa had intended to go, unless…unless…

_He told him_ , Sansa thought wildly. _O—of course! I should have seen it; how could I not have?_ "Theon," breathed Sansa, feeling her heart sink to the pit of her stomach as she lifted her chin to meet the Warden of the North's gaze. Roose merely favored silence and a twisted sneer that looked more like a grimace as a response, which only confirmed the young redhead's immediate suspicions that Theon Greyjoy had broken at last. Sansa had always believed the man whom she had once considered a friend and ally to her would have been a tough nut to crack, but gazing into the listlessness of the Warden's eyes, she knew now that this was not the case.

All that was left was Reek. Her throat and heart held in a silver grasp, and all Sansa could do was stare lifelessly at the man's gray eyes, at his hand that held the blade and a terrifying coldness in a man that she had never seen before, not even within Ramsay. Trembling, Sansa tipped her chin up into the sharpened edge, tempting the Warden of the North to just end her anguish already, half hoping that Lord Roose would do so, to save herself the sheer embarrassment and heartbreak of looking into Ramsay's eyes one last time, and seeing the anguish and sorrow there that lurked within.

A small stream of crimson blood trickled from the feeble gash placed upon her collarbone that she could not feel, and Roose did not flinch nor avert his gaze from Sansa's, a cruel smile stretched upon gaunt features that made the Warden look quite deranged. Sansa gulped nervously, feeling beads of sweat begin to form upon her brow, knowing whatever was coming to her would not be kind, and her muscles tensed as much as they could, but the knowing still did not soften the blow as his other hand not clutching onto the dagger in his hand drew back and cracked across Sansa's left cheek. The slap was as loud as a clap and stung her face. It had been an open-handed smack and it had left a red welt behind. Just below her left eye was a small cut where his ring had caught her.

Sansa let out a muffled cry of pain and staggered backwards, clutching at her face, her eyes watering like mad. Sansa's frozen heart shifted at the sight of the merciless Warden's gaze, her legs almost failing beneath her, but she could not show just how terrified she was, for if she allowed her face and eyes to betray her, then it was over.

Roose's steadfast grip upon the polished jeweled weapon shifted, causing more crimson liquid to flow from the small but efficient raw wound he had inflicted upon his bastard son's wife. "At last," he breathed, and Sansa visibly cringed and attempted to free herself from the Warden's ironclad grip, pitifully clawing at his hand around her throat with her fingers, though it was to no avail. The coldness that lingered in Roose's tone was frightening. "You thought you had outwitted me, my child. You must have taken me for a fool, Lady Stark. But I take it I need not remind you that patience is one of my many virtues…and your husband's little _freak_ led me here. He has told me everything that I wish and need to know. I know my son was responsible for the deaths of my wife and child," Roose growled threateningly, though if this rumor was true, he did not seem particularly grief-stricken.

Sansa swallowed nervously, cringing as the simple act caused her to feel the tip of the Warden's dagger, still holding her throat hostage with no intentions of letting up until Sansa either begged Lord Bolton for a quick and painless death or surrendered and succumbed to the Warden's sick demands and did as he asked of her without questions. Of which, Sansa would do neither. Sansa jutted her chin out slightly defiantly and dared to meet the Warden of the North's inquisitive gaze, who had cocked his head to the side and was regarding Sansa as though she were an exotic animal in bars behind a cage, nothing more than a fascinating and beautiful specimen to gawk at.

She scowled, knitting her brows together in one last defiant glower. "Ramsay has already left for Stannis Baratheon's encampments. You shan't catch up to him, milord Bolton," she spat venomously. "And what of Theon? What did you do to him?" Sansa demanded hotly, stomping her foot, a release of frustration. "What have you done with Theon Greyjoy, Warden?" she asked, biting her bottom lip, and sticking it out in a slight pout.

In Lord Roose Bolton's arrogant triumph, the Warden smirked. Just a small pouting of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes and a tilting of his head. It was so subtle, it was even more infuriating for the Lady of Winterfell, who caught a glimpse of it after making the foolish mistake of asking after Theon Greyjoy and Ramsay's whereabouts.

Sansa swallowed hard and blinked back salty, briny tears as she watched, eyes widening with horror as the Warden snapped his fingers, and a pair of guards came forward, one of them was the one she had met during her first few days back home, the archer. Ser Aleyn. "No…" she whispered, her voice cracking as it warbled. Her tears threatened to spill over as she recognized the young man drag a struggling figure throughout the snow, ignoring his muffled whimpers and yelps.

Poor Theon's was grotesque in appearance even on a good day, but now…his eyes were swollen shut and already bruising purple, his form slack. His brown hair had recently been shorn brutally short, it was practically stubble, though tangled with congealed blood, and his face was drained of color, rendering a pallid look that resembled that of a corpse upon his features. As the trusted archer of Roose's somewhat reluctantly dragged Theon into view, Sansa let out a hiss as the pair got closer, almost not recognizing poor Theon of the Iron Islands anymore.

The pair of men were still too far away, and Theon's gait was all wrong. He walked lopsided at that. As the archer dropped the beaten and broken boy at Lord Roose's feet, he cast an apologetic glance towards Sansa. "I am sorry that it had to come to this, milady. He…" The archer bit his bottom lip, casting a wary look at the Warden, whose face remained impassive and stoic, his expression quite unreadable. "He threatened my family."

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek as she felt a million retorts bristle within the confines of her chest as her head whiplashed sharply upwards to regard the Bolton's family's brightest and best of their team of archers. "You're _sorry_?" she shouted, momentarily forgetting her fear at her current predicament as she somehow managed to free herself from Lord Roose's clutches, bolting to Theon's side, the only indication of life still left within the broken man from the Iron Islands as he lay in a crumpled heap that was slowly staining the pristine white snow blood-red was the steadily slow rising and falling of his chest. She stifled a half choked sob of misery as she lifted her chin to meet the archer's gaze.

The eyes that she believed once to be filled with much potential and purpose was now replaced with a horrible-looking bitterness and hatred. The only thing that showed any resemblance to the new friend that she had thought she had made in the courtyard that fateful day, Ser Aleyn, who had helped her to escape on the eve of her wedding to Ramsay, was the shell the bitter soul driven by greed and revenge that was inhabited.

Her friend, what was left of Aleyn, was gone.

She felt an insurmountable anger, hotter than any flames a dragon could breathe, work its way up from the pit of her stomach and into her throat. "Ser Aleyn, you are a betrayer to the Starks and Bolton families alike," Sansa announced, fixating her gaze on the young archer, who was having trouble meeting her gaze, though she could tell the coldness of her words, the lack of warmth in them, was hitting their mark. Good. He needed to hear this. "That day in the courtyard…it would have been kinder just to kill me," Sansa whisper hissed through gritted teeth, her hot tears stinging and blurring her vision, but she swallowed past the lump in her throat and angrily blinked them back. "If it would not wound your family so badly, then I would see you buried six feet under this very dirt beneath our boots for what you have done, and I would walk away without shedding a single tear. I would not mourn you, and neither would Ramsay. Once he learns of what you have done, the man is apt to kill you. I am the girl whom you met in the heart of the godswoods near the courtyard, the one with a heart now so consumed by a hatred I never knew could took root. But here it is. Here I stand. My hatred for you does not ebb, Ser Aleyn, it multiples. I never wish to look upon your face again. You have betrayed me, Theon, your Lord Ramsay. _All of us_."

Sansa bit her bottom lip and allowed her tears to freely fall as she gathered Theon into her arms, using the crook of her elbow to support his head as his eyes opened and he blearily tried to focus his gaze a few feet in front of himself, though it was costing him greatly, much pain, Sansa could see. His eyes were swollen shut.

Theon wouldn't be seeing out of either one of them well enough if they both lived through whatever Lord Bolton had in mind for them. Theon's face bore signs of dried and congealed blood, his own, and his tattered and worn brown tunic was an utter crimson mess, stained with his blood, and gods, the _smell_.

Sansa crinkled her nose in disgust and fought back the urge to vomit. Then…Theon tried to say her name, his lips cracking and bleeding at the first syllable, but he did not need to. Stifling a choked sob at the back of her throat, Sansa cradled Theon's head in her hands and tried to force her friend to look into her eyes.

If this was to be the last time Theon Greyjoy would look upon her face, then Sansa wanted to make it count. She leaned down and whispered into the shell of Theon's ear. "I forgive you, Theon…" She pulled apart slightly to study his face. He murmured something incoherent and his closed eyelids fluttered slightly, but the broken, beaten man in her arms gave no indication that he had heard her. Sansa turned back towards Ser Aleyn, seemingly having forgotten for a moment that her and Theon and now Ramsay's fate rested within the hands of Lord Roose. She felt the knife before she saw it, this knife of betrayal in a man who she had once believed to be a friend to her. "You…you horse's ass!" Sansa bellowed, having only eyes for Ser Aleyn, who was looking just as beaten and broken as Theon, if not possibly more, if such a thing was even possible. She wondered what Roose had done, his silver words of persuasion that he had used to coerce Ser Aleyn into the mistreatment of poor Theon.

But it mattered not. Not anymore. The damage was already done, and the heartbreak it caused Sansa irrevocable, as was her trust in the young archer. She sat up straighter, her fingers curling into a protective fist around Theon's middle, the other hand not wrapped around his waist gently stroking his hair, completely ignoring the fact that when she pulled her hand away, her palms were stained crimson. " _How dare you!_ _How dare you_ beat him within an inch of his life? Have you _no_ regard for your own honor, Ser? You were Ramsay's _brother_ , a _friend_ to him! He spoke highly of you! Now you are nothing to us, you witless worm, you mere slither of worthlessness, you snake in the night!" she screamed, the bitter cold wind tossing her hair like winter fire about haphazardly in the breeze.

Her grip upon Theon's limp form tightened considerably as Lord Bolton drew nearer, closing off the gap of space between them. "I trusted you, Aleyn! I liked you! I considered you to be a friend to Ramsay and I! And this is you how repay us? Get out of my sight, archer! I never want to look upon your face again. You are relieved of your duty to the Bolton family. In the absence of my husband, I invoke the right to appoint and dismiss members of staff as I see fit, and I take advantage of this opportunity now. I would rather you take a knife to my heart than speak words so cold to me, Ser Aleyn. I will not cry nor grieve for you, betrayer, for you stole yourself away the moment you betrayed mine and my lord husband's trust. You took the friendship you offered the pair of us and locked it back inside that cage you dare to call a body. You will never know, never find out what our friendship could have meant to you, Ser, and neither will I. **GET OUT!** " She growled, rising to her feet, and struggling to help Theon to stand, draping an arm over his shoulder, grunting, and wincing with the effort to pull the young man to his feet.

Sansa jumped, startled, as Lord Bolton cleared his throat, a look of severe annoyance that almost bordered on boredom in his gaunt features.

"Be quiet, Lady Stark. You fool no one, Sansa Stark. You have rendered my son weak, and that is something I simply cannot allow. I need Ramsay's iron will and strong stomach to turn the tides of this waging war to our advantage, and with his mind distracted with thoughts of _you_ , Stannis's fucking armies will lay siege to Winterfell, and his men are apt to slit our throats in our sleep, girl," the Warden commented in a drawl, clasping his slender fingers together, the garish glint of his red ruby ring catching in the blinding white light of the early morning winter sun.

Before she could open her mouth to yell at Lord Roose, he drew back his hand and slapped her a second time. Sansa let out a pained gasp and staggered backwards, away from Theon's body. The pain of what Lord Bolton had done was increasing in waves, small lulls giving false hope an end in sight. Each peak robbed Sansa's ability to speak, sending her crashing to the courtyard ground, groveling at Bolton's feet. It was as though her blood had become acid at the betrayal of now not only Ramsay's lord father, but the archer underneath Ramsay's command as well. And she could tell by one look in the archer's cold, listless eyes that her husband's days were numbered if she could not find a way to warn him of the impending danger ahead, somehow.

Lord Bolton approached, his thin lips curled up into a twisted, cold smirk of his that by now, Sansa had come to learn was a habit anytime he was about to flay someone and smiled wickedly at the last Stark woman of Winterfell.

For a brief moment, Sansa thought of Arya, and hoped that wherever her younger sister was, that she was safe.

The Warden of the North gave a curt snap of his gloved fingers again, and Sansa's heart sank to the pit of her stomach as a second guard, this one's name and face known to her, stepped forward. She gulped nervously, having to crane her neck just to take in all of the brute's appearance.

The soldier that now stood towering in front of Sansa was on the shorter, stockier side, muscular, with square shoulders and a square back to match, and black, close cropped hair. He had a somewhat handsome face made slightly uneven by his nose, which looked to Sansa as though it had been broken at some time in the past. Her blood rendered to ice in her veins as Roose spoke his next words, flatly, with no emotion.

"Mikael, escort Lady Sansa back to her…new chambers," he drawled, cupping Sansa's chin in his gloved hand and tilting it sharply upwards, forcing Sansa to meet his gaze. He leaned in and whispered into the shell of her ear, "Perhaps…my dear…this will help you to better think over my offer of what I am about to offer you. I would seek to ensure you thrive here in Winterfell, and if you remain wedded to my bastard son, you life is already in shambles and you've no future, and your family name will forever be tainted. But…"

Sansa's eyes widened as the realization of what Lord Roose was about to offer her set in and she began to understand. "You would…have me _marry_ you?" She was unable to keep the disgust and hatred from her tone. She tried to shirk away from Bolton's touch, and he let out a dark little chuckle as he relinquished his grip upon her chin. "NEVER!" she shouted, balling her hands into fists, her nails digging into the skin of her palms, at her sides. "M...milord, this is insanity. But if you could hear yourself speak of such slanderous thoughts! What you are suggesting is unforgivable! Such talk of respect," she spat, disgusted with Roose's proposal.

"We shall see just how much _disgust_ you feel when I am through with you, Stark," Roose growled. He turned towards Mikael, who stood at attention and was awaiting his next orders. "Escort my son's wife inside at once, Mikael. We cannot have her catch her death out here."

"And of that one, sir?" the guard asked, gesturing with a jerk of his head towards Theon's unconscious form.

Roose snorted and rolled his eyes. "Ah, yes. Ramsay's little _plaything_. What do they call you, again? Ah. _Reek the Freak_ , isn't it? Well, no matter. This one still has his usefulness, so he shall remain alive. For now. Take him, my bastard son's little pet," here, Roose spat at Theon's feet and kicked aside his unconscious body with the tip of his leather boot, taking great care to bring his boot down upon Theon's nose, and Sansa clenched her eyes shut and winced as she heard the unmistakable sound of bone snapping. Roose had broken his nose, "back to the dungeons as well. Make sure neither one can leave their respective cells, Mikael. Do it."

The guard gave a curt nod, and without so much as a word to Sansa, seized hold of her forearm and violently wrenched the young woman to her feet, ignored Sansa's muffled cry of pain as his fingers curled tightly around her arm, already knowing that the sheer force of his ironclad grip would leave markings she knew she did not want.

"What of Ramsay?" Sansa managed to gasp out through her tears, barely flinching as the guard named Mikael wrapped a strong around her waist and held her throat hostage with a knife. She flinched as the tip of the blade made contact with the pale column of her throat. "What of your own son, milord? What is it be his fate?" she pleaded, biting her bottom lip and crying out only once as she felt the guard begin to drag her back towards the castle's dungeons.

Sansa bit her bottom lip and watched, frustrated, as she dug the heels of her boots into the frozen earth, fighting the guard with what little strength and energy she had left in her vain efforts to return in haste to Theon's side, who had been lifted to his feet by none other than the treacherous betrayer, Ser Aleyn, himself, an arm slung over the unconscious younger boy's shoulder, and was being escorted towards the dungeons, in the opposite direction of Sansa.

Now she would never get to tell him in person that she forgave him…

There had been hope for her, before. And Ramsay. Just a tiny flicker against the wind. But now, there was nothing left. She continued to struggle with the guard called Mikael, determined not to avert her gaze from Lord Roose, whose face remained neutral and impassive as he watched his bastard son's wife fight tooth and nail to escape. She tried again, one last time, desperate to reach Lord Bolton and receive an answer on Ramsay's fate.

"Your son, Lord Bolton. What will become of my husband? _What are you going to do to him_?" she screamed. Sansa swallowed nervously as she met the Warden of the North's gaze. The cold, flat look reflected on his face chilled her.

His hands were closed tightly around the hilt of the dagger resting in its sheath strapped to his thigh. Ramsay's lord father seemed to have no sense of humanity. His heart, if he even had one, seemed to be made of stone, the way he had so brutally ordered Theon Greyjoy to be beaten within an inch of his life, and now, was about to order a hit on his own son. Sansa knew she would never forget the evil glint in his beady eyes, narrowed to mere slits.

How Lord Bolton had smelled of blood. Of danger. He fixed his bastard's son's wife with a cold glower and the next words that poured from his lips chilled her blood. "No more than _you_ would do to _me_ ," he growled. "I know all of your pathetic little plans, everything, Lady Stark. You thought that you could deceive me. I think not. You, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, are rumored to possess the talents of black magic, and have therefore plagued my bastard son's thoughts and mine own as well with wicked thoughts of lust and temptation. You have evaded capture for the suspicious death of His Majesty King Joffrey Baratheon of which you are suspected in playing a role in, Lady Stark. You must face the justice to answer for your crimes. You are therefore guilty of the treasonous betrayal of your fellow northerners and everyone within Winterfell's borders and should you refuse to accept my offer, will be sentenced to death by immolation at twilight on the morrow. And, if by some miracle presented by the gods, my bastard son should escape his fate in those wretched woods…" Lord Bolton let out a guttural growl from the back of his throat that sounded more animalistic than any human noise should ever be, "then he is therefore guilty of the same sentence and should share your fate. _Burn_. I have seen enough. Get her out of my sight, Mikael. Do it. NOW!" he yelled.

Sansa stifled her choked sob, biting down hard on her bottom lip to escape the muffled sob that threatened release as she allowed the guard to drag her away, her hands now bound together in a pair of manacles, the harsh metal which cut and dug into the fragile skin of her wrists. Seven hells, would the gods really be this cruel to her? Was this her fate? The tiny flicker of hope that had dulled to a mere flickering ember within her chest went out almost instantly. Sansa allowed Mikael to escort her into a cell in the dungeons below Winterfell's foundations, feeling her shoulders slump in defeat as he violently yanked her forward, causing her to stumble every few feet.

She walked, unaware of how much time had passed, just staring into the abyss, this desolate pit of her cell that was her new world. No thoughts came to her except that her fate was sealed. _And Ramsay, gods, Ramsay…._ Sansa knew herself to be now hopelessly in love with her husband, bastard of Bolton or otherwise, that mattered not to her. _That's the worst part of all of this_ , she thought, silently crying as she raked her knuckles along the iron bars of the door to her prison cell.

_Whatever good Ramsay sees in me is going to disappear tomorrow evening_. At her pyre. Sansa had maintained the company of Lord Bolton well enough that by now, she knew that the wretched man would want his bastard son to bear witness to his wife's demise, to watch him suffer as the one good thing in his life was painfully removed from his clutches, and then, and only then, would Ramsay truly be his again.

For with no thoughts of her to preoccupy his mind, Sansa knew that her lord husband was the type of man who would quickly whiplash from despair to destruction in an instant, and in his grief-stricken rage, he would be unstoppable, a sheer force to be reckoned with.

With Ramsay by her side, that little flicker of hope had been all that Sansa needed in life. With the open eyes of a naïve girl innocent of the cruel ways of man, she had reached out to that Bastard of Bolton, her fingers extended. He had taken her hand, but it had been Roose who had so violently wrenched each other from the other's grasp. In that moment, Roose had a choice of kindness or cruelty. It had taken the Warden no time at all for him to decide. He had seen that dying ember within Sansa's cobalt blue eyes and brought the winds to a cold howl. How was it that his thinking was so different from Sansa's? So foreign? How was it that Lord Bolton, Warden of the North, father to her lord husband Ramsay, could see the suffering within his son's wife's eyes and choose to make it all the worse?

Sansa lowered her head and cried. Sansa Stark allowed herself to sit in the pit that had become her world, the only decorations her own nail marks on the cold stone slabs of wall that she could not scale, and she could not escape this cell without the door's key. Though she knew there was light at the top, it felt to Sansa Stark a million miles away, and were it not for Ramsay being down here with her, in the confines of her own imagination, Sansa wouldn't even bother to try.

Every time she reached out with love to someone, someone she hoped would be able to throw her a rope, the floor sunk a little bit lower, jolting her body as it stops—crushing Sansa with a new pain, a new abandonment. First it had been her parents. And then Arya. Now Ramsay's life, the tether binding his soul and body to the earthly coil was about to be severed, cut from him by the very hands of a man, the archer, whom he had once called friend. Sansa sniffed and wiped at her eyes with the back of her dress's long trumpet sleeve and blearily looked around. Perhaps now was the time, limited as it was, for her to realize it was not herself she was supposed to get out, but him.

And so, Sansa closed her eyes and allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness Ramsay had dwelled within for so many years prior to her entering into his life, to see that intermingled with the markings of her own nails were his too, older, though, the blood long dried. And then, Sansa knew that Ramsay gave up…

Because there was nothing else for him to do, and that the best day of his life was when Sansa fell into this horrible pit of despair with him, their tears running together. Sansa clenched her jaw shut. "I'll get you out. _I promise_. If this is to be the last thing on this earth that I do. I will," she promised to Ramsay in a whisper.

Though she knew he was likely miles into the godswoods by now and could not hear him, there was a part of her that hoped that somehow…he could. She would get him out. Because that was how Sansa knew that she could love like she was born to, that she could put her own husband first, even when her cold winter was it its darkest. Exhaling a shaking breath, she closed her eyes and rested her head against the cold, unforgiving slab of stone that was part of the wall of her cell. All she wanted right now was to speak to Ramsay, for thoughts of her lord husband was perhaps now the only thing that would keep the darkness at bay.

"My love, come as close as you can to the prison walls and whisper sweet nothings into the tiny cracks. I can forgo the golden beams of light, I can suffer nothing but bleak walls for company, but love I cannot live without. Tell me of the days to come, the ones where we walk in meadows, a feast of color for eyes that have seen nothing but gray for so long. Tell me of how we walk hand in hand to the river and wash our weary feet. Tell me of how we will feel the warm light of the sun on our skin and hug like our love is eternal. Tell me of how we'll watch the fish make their way through cool waters before heading home to rest in each other's arms, always knowing a fresh dawn will come. Tell me. Speak to me." Sansa felt the tiny ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she allowed herself to drift into an uneasy sleep, her body exhausted and taxed from the sheer stress of the day's unexpected developments.

If she listened closely, she could hear Ramsay speaking to her…

_You the sunshine of the eternal dawn within, the one that makes it safe for my soul to breathe anew. You show a courage I thought long extinguished from the world, yet here you are. It is because of who you are that I feel this way, that your touch is like Wildfire and all that you are is home. I trust you even when the cold winds blow; I hold to you when sinister whispers speak ill, for I saw your soul one precious night under the stars, and it lives with me still. So, for all the time there is a me, I am yours: mind, body and soul, Sansa Stark. I am yours…and you are mine_.


	25. Theon

**Theon**

_You are not Reek anymore. You are Theon Greyjoy, of the Iron Islands_. Sansa Stark's words echoed inside Theon's mind as he wandered aimlessly through the woods that bordered Winterfell's estate.

It had been easy enough for Sansa to convince poor Theon to help her. She had…she had forgiven him when one of the guards had dragged Theon in to visit Lady Stark, telling the boy to exchange his last words with the Lady of Winterfell, and something within Theon had changed, shifted his personality, and he could not—would not—allow them to murder Lady Sansa like this. Not after everything that happened. Sansa had said he could prove his loyalty this way if he was able to venture out undetected and tell Ramsay what has happened.

All he had to do was sneak into the woods and find Master. A relatively easy enough task, and no one had even noticed Theon slip out the crypts, having managed to sneak the guard’s key to his cell into his tunic pocket when the guard, Mikael, had come into poor Theon’s cage for his third beating. Or had that been his fourth?

Honestly, after the first couple, he kind of lost count. “You must go,” Sansa had urged poor Theon. “You can _do_ this, Theon. _You are a lord of the Iron Islands_. No coward are you. The Theon I _know_ would not turn away a cry for help from a friend.” A friend. Lady Sansa had called Theon a _friend_ … He remembered how he had shot her a kind, awkward sort of half little smile, and, with a newfound feeling of warmth and relief welling deep within his chest, and he could remember speaking to Lady Sansa, telling her of how he had not murdered her brothers.

He had promised he’d help. “Stick to the edge of the woods,” Sansa had instructed. “When you find my husband, tell him that I sent for you and that his lord father means to kill us. He shall not hurt you; I can promise you that, Theon. And if he _does_ ,” she had answered, lifting her chin to meet Theon’s gaze, and even Theon was surprised to see the anger, the Wildfire starting to burn and scorch in her blue eyes. “Then he should have _me_ to deal with, but first, you must find him, or all of our efforts will have been for naught. Milord Ramsay was following the north path of the godswoods. If you go now and hurry, you should be able to find them. He was traveling with a party of three or four, and one of them is going to be that treacherous little worm, Aleyn,” she’d growled through gritted teeth.

Theon, true to his word to stay safe, kept to the woods that lay at the edge of Winterfell’s borders as he descended into the dark woods, walking down the dirt paths, feeling rough cracks and twigs through the thin soles of his boots. The wind which carried the bitter winter breeze moved as though Theon were not there at all, as if he were a ghost and nothing more. Through the canopy of the trees came an eerie melancholy sort of a tune, all of it with as much flow as winter ice.

And all at once, Theon felt like the very air that surrounded him in these unfamiliar accursed woods that he was sure to get lost in if he could not find his way felt like water, and he felt as though he were drowning in this sea of indifference, desperate to swim up beyond the cloudy night skies to the bright stars above. Theon exhaled a slightly shaking breath through his nose, his lips parted open slightly as he breathed in cold bursts of fresh air. Theon lifted his head to the heavens above and shot a quick prayer to the gods, praying for anyone of them to send him some guidance.

Taking another deep breath to steel his nerves, Theon stared at the path at his feet, as it led into the darkness of the woods. Yet follow it he had to, for the sake of his and Sansa’s own lives, and to ensure Ramsay learned the truth, of which he had probably long suspected, though even Theon had thought that Lord Roose would not stoop so low as to lust after his own bastard’s son’s wife. And so, his freezing feet followed the narrow strip of naked earth among the giants of root and leaf. Theon let his hands ghost against the gnarled bark as Theon passed each tree, which seemed more giant to him than the previous one he passed. Theon could swear the trees were talking to each other, as their trunks and limbs seemed to sway in the breeze, making low groaning sounds.

He shuddered and shook his head vehemently to try to rid his mind of such thoughts. _Trees can't talk. It’s these damned cursed woods. It's affected my mind. Grow up_ , Theon scolded himself, feeling his fingers curl into a tight protective fist over the strap of his satchel. It felt as though the trees' gentle spirits were trying to soothe his own.

For this was their world as the trees stretched towards the light they never would see and yet they sensed, and Theon knew to get anywhere, he would have to do the same. To open up his mind and his other senses. To sound, to aroma, and listen so very carefully to every instinct.

With a startled cry of surprise, Theon let out a yelp of fear as he stumbled over what appeared to be a twisted tree root, or more likely, if he was being honest with himself, it was probably his own mutilated foot. It was kind of hard for him to walk with only a few toes. Ramsay, during the early days of Theon’s imprisonment, had seen fit to relieve him of a few of his appendages. The roots in these woods appeared to at times, have a mind of their own, at least, Theon's overactive imagination was leading him to believe that.

It had to have been at least an hour since he had parted ways with Lady Stark and bade his friend a temporary farewell, and it seemed like he had been lost in this forsaken forest for quite some time now. Time did not flow clearly here. The tree branches above Theon's head were so thick that even now he could no longer tell if it was night or day. Everything here was so incredibly disorienting. Something was certainly off about these woods, though what it was, even Theon could not formulate an apt response in his mind as to why the forest was making him feel the way that it was. Though if Theon were being completely honest with himself, he had perhaps been overconfident in his initial assessment that he could easily make his way through the forest, as long as she stayed on the path. That was easy. Theon had been confident that as long as he followed the dirt path in the woods that (hopefully) headed towards wherever Master happened to be, then Theon would be safe and just fine.

But now…he was most assuredly _not_ fine.

These goddamned woods made no sense at all, and Theon very quickly into his journey soon found himself lost. Lost, alone, and very much frightened and afraid, thinking that it was probably only a matter of time before Lord Roose discovered Theon’s absence and would send a scouting company of his best men after him to ensure he didn’t reach Ramsay in time. Stepping into the woods robbed the broken and battered man of the Iron Islands of one sense and heightened all the others. It was disorienting to be almost blinded but given the ears of a wolf and…oh, _wolves_! There was rumored to be wolves in this forest, ones who wouldn't hesitate to eat Theon alive if given the chance should he have the unfortunate luck to stumble across one of them, and he didn’t exactly have any kind of weapon to defend himself.

Even the soft susurration of the branches felt heavy in poor Theon’s ears. His sense of smell was sensitized, the loam in the earth and the decomposing of the fall leaves that fell from their branches to join their fallen brethren on the ground made the atmosphere in the woods close and thick. The blackness nurtured within Theon a horrible sense of claustrophobia inside him, though the woodland seemed to stretch on for miles with seemingly no end in sight for the broken and battered lost young man wandering aimlessly, occasionally murmuring to himself under his breath.

The narrow path that Theon had chosen to follow, which was made uneven by the knotted roots that crossed it, branched at intervals. There was no map for Theon to follow, but even if he had been in possession of one, the perpetual dark would have prevented the boy from using it to guide his way out of this forsaken place. The barren branches of the trees spiked into the sky—no sign of life other than Theon to be found anywhere, a fact which greatly unnerved her. It was so dark, as he reached out a hand in front of him, blindly groping in the hopes he would find something— _anything_ to rest his hand upon and guide his way, Theon could barely see where he was going. There was only the sound of the rustling branches and the eerie howl of the wind at his back.

Theon did not know what lay ahead of him in this dark forest, or what new life awaited her once he found Master and warned him.

Would this newfound change in Ramsay be enough, his love for Sansa, if he could even call what Master felt for his wife that, be enough to set Theon free? Could Lady Stark ensure that happened?

Theon shook his head and bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. He didn’t know for sure, and he wouldn’t unless he found Lord Ramsay in time. But what he _did_ know was that it wasn't going to be a pleasant journey. Theon stifled a groan as he forced himself to take one step forward, and then another. His feet fucking hurt, screaming within his boots, the forming blisters on the backs of his heels begging the young man to stop and rest for a moment, and he felt tired, so incredibly exhausted, stressed, and quite frankly, overwhelmed. But Theon felt a surge of determination course through his veins and he clenched his jaw shut.

 _You promised Lady Stark that you would help her. She has forgiven you. Now is not the time to go back on your promise_.

Theon narrowed his eyes as he looked ahead, straining to see any signs of life ahead that he could spot, and…wait.

 _Wait a second_. "Is that a light?" Theon breathed. It was quite dim, but it did seem to be there, perhaps a fellow traveler camping. For a moment, he felt exhilarated. Seven hells, the gods were kind to him, for they had provided for Theon a way out of these cursed woods. It was a light. A real, honest-to-goodness light. That was his way out, it just had to be. There could be no other explanation.

Theon was not entirely sure if he had spoken out loud to himself just now or if he'd had another inner musing again, but it mattered not. Theon Greyjoy decided to follow the light and make his way towards it and see where it led. “Maybe it’s Master setting up camp.” He bit his bottom lip in anticipation and closed his eyes.

 _Fuck. The one time I actually hope to encounter Ramsay. Never thought that I would see this day_ , he thought, somewhat angrily.

Theon clung to that flicker of hope that burned bright within him chest as he inched his way towards the light carefully, trying to be mindful to not let his small satchel snag on any outstretched, groping tree limbs. Theon furrowed his brows into a frown as he continued staring at that strange light.

But from which direction was it coming from? Was the thing he was so enamored with even a light guiding the way at all?

It was difficult for Theon to tell, but it was still there. If these woods were somehow magic and cursed, then the forest was doing an excellent job of playing tricks upon Theon's somewhat susceptible and imaginative mind. But he just had to know.

The light grew blindingly brighter as the young man advanced upon the light, coming to a clearing of sorts. But what in seven hells was it? Moonlight? A campfire from a band of pilgrims or travelers? Fireflies?

Theon sighed, letting out a cry of frustration as he hoped it was not just his overactive mind playing tricks on him in its emotionally compromised state. He had already given up so much this eve.

He had not relished the thought of leaving Lady Sansa alone in the company of Lord Roose and his guards, but she had insisted that she would be fine, though Theon had heard the crack in her voice.

Theon could tell Lady Stark had been frightened, but there was a fierce determination in her cobalt blue eyes, the shadow of a Wolf.

And it was then that Theon knew that Lady Sansa would be fine to hold her own for an hour or two while he combed the godswoods in search of Lord Bolton.

Theon felt the wind tousle his wavy brown hair into buoyant curls. "H—hello?" he called out timidly, cupping his hands around his face. Theon still could not see the source of this mysterious light that had led him into the clearing and was seemingly getting further away from him, no matter how many steps forward he could feel his footfalls taking him, apparently no longer taking directions from his mind and walking towards the light of their own accord. "Hello?" Theon shouted. There was no answer.

Theon frowned, feeling his shoulders slump in defeat. "Perhaps it was the moon, then."

Theon's eyes caught the soft tumble of movement as his gaze followed a single red and brown leaf as it tumbled to the ground, drifting almost impossibly slowly from the branches just above his head that he had to duck to avoid getting hit by. Theon tiredly shook his head and blinked his heavily-lidded eyes, trying to clear the swirling haze of black mists from his vision.

"Hello?" Theon tried again. "Is someone out there?" Theon called out in an uncertain voice. "Please! I—I'm lost!"

Silence. Silence gnawed at his insides. Silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. The silence was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything. The silence was poisonous in its nothingness. Silence clung to Theon like a poisonous cloud that at any moment could choke the life from Theon. Silence seeped into the broken man’s every pore, like a poison slowly paralyzing Theon from either speech or movement.

All Theon could hear in response to his pleading calls were the sound of his own breaths, that sounded much too slow for his own comfort. Was he really breathing that slowly?

Theon was going to most assuredly die if he kept on like this. He could feel himself as he inhaled a sharp breath of cold winter air, attempting to force air to return to his lungs to ensure his breathing rate (and his heart rate) returned to something that resembled normalcy. Theon felt like he was hyperventilating right now.

The thoughts began accelerating inside Theon's head. The boy wanted them to slow so he could breathe but they won't. His breaths came in short, painful gasps and Theon suddenly felt like he was on the verge of passing out from sheer exertion and stress. The boy could swear he could feel his heart hammering inside his chest as it belonged to a rabbit running for its skin. An invisible hand clamped over Theon's mouth, just as an equally ghostly surge of adrenaline pierced the young man’s already fragile heart, unloading in an instant. Theon could feel his ribs heaving as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate his lungs, begging for air.

Gods, why couldn't he _breathe_? Was he even still alive? There was a distance in Theon's eyes as they glossed over, straining for any further signs of that mysterious light that had led him into the forest clearing, but none came to him. Theon’s head felt like a myriad of fears rapidly spiraling out of his control, each one pushing his mind into a horrible blackness.

Theon wanted to run. He needed to freeze. Sounds that were nearby suddenly sounded far off in the distance. As if he were no longer in the body that currently rested against the bark of an old oak tree as he slumped to the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest and trying to curl into himself for warmth as much as he possibly could.

His voice came out thin and distant as he let out a low whimper.

"What…no…I—I'm lost…that's…not…right." Theon knew he was breathing all wrong, beginning to gasp like there was not enough air in these woods for him. Adrenaline flooded the young man's system. It pumped and beat within his veins like it was trying to escape. Theon thought his heart would explode; his eyes wide with fear at the current state of his predicament.

Fucking great. He had failed Lady Sansa. The one chance to prove his worth to her and he’d fucked this up too. He was lost. His body either wanted to run deeper into the heart of the godswoods, to try to seek shelter for the night, or back towards the way he had come and hope that Theon could find his way back to the pathway from there, but there was only one thing he could do. Pray that nothing found him and killed him. Especially not the wolves.

Theon swallowed hard. Theon could feel the adrenaline surging so fast that he almost vomited, able to taste the saliva thickening in the back of his throat and coating his tongue, beads of sweat trickling down his brow. The young broken man from the Iron Islands could feel the sweat drench his skin and he let out another whimper of fear, wishing with all his might that he would have stayed. At least there, he could have had a chance of protecting Sansa.

"At least I'd still be with you," Theon whispered, hating hearing the crack in his voice as he let himself cry.

His fingers curled into a fist, his nails digging into the skin of his palms. Poor Theon could not hear his rapid breathing, but he could feel the air flooding in and out of his lungs, though it felt like he was not breathing at all to him. Fear churned his stomach into intense cramps, engulfing his conscience and knocking all other thoughts aside. It overwhelmed his body, making it feel drastically exhausted, even more so than he already knew it to be.

Theon Greyjoy was lost in the woods, with no one coming to his aid to help guide him and light the path forward towards Lord Ramsay. All he was left with was this insurmountable fear, which created an uncomfortable pit deep within his stomach.

However, most of all, his fear was making him calm, and that was what scared Theon the most. For if he could not find a way to locate Ramsay, then Sansa Stark of Winterfell would burn.


	26. Ramsay

**RAMSAY**

Ramsay Bolton let out a growl of frustration and shifted his scabbard to scratch at an itch on his thigh, thinking that these damned woods were the most annoying thing he and his small company of men had ever been forced to endure. But it was the only way to ensure they encroached upon Stannis's camps undetected, and so that was the way of things, but he wished he were back home.

With his wife. His Sansa. Ramsay sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger in frustration, as though he were on the verge of getting a splitting migraine. His headaches seemed to be increasing in frequency these days, thanks in no small part to his father's efforts to rid the North of Stannis Baratheon and his armies and in by doing so, practically burning their entire great lands to the ground for all of his efforts. Ramsay groaned and trudged forward. He and his men had been out here going on at least three hours, each on the last vestiges of their patience, propelling themselves forward on perhaps only three or four hours of good, solid sleep.

Traversing these damned woods alone would have been punishment enough, but to be responsible for an entire company of men, which in actuality only totaled to about five, well, it was only natural enough that Ramsay as their commanding leader would see it as an obligation to keep track of each and every one of his men. Though going on what had to be the fourth hour lost in these woods, it was becoming harder and harder for Ramsay to account for all five in his party.

His best and brightest, one of the archers Ser Aleyn, had a horrible habit of wandering off into places where he ought not, usually in search of food, and one of their archers, Ser Aleyn, had an even worse habit of scaling the trunks of trees in able to see from a high-above vantage point.

A useful skill in combat situations, but here in these woods where he was responsible for all of them, it fucking pissed Ramsay off to no end, annoying him. Ramsay stomped his foot in a moment of frustration and kicked aside a fallen tree branch that was in their path.

Ramsay glanced towards the trees' canopy as he heard the rustling of limbs above his head and he barely stifled his smile as the young archer, Aleyn, poked his head out of the wood and shot Ramsay a lopsided sort of smirk, albeit without ever showing his teeth. "No signs of wolves, sir."

Ramsay nodded. "I thought not. Father sends us out on these damned fool's errands nightly, risking our own lives, when we've not had a single Baratheon bastard traipse through these fucking woods. Father keeps us away from our wives, when I could be at home in the comfort of my own bed, nice, warm, and enjoying a good fucking. Seven hells," he growled through gritted teeth. "I just want to go home and lay with Lady Sansa. She's…warm," he admitted, not even realizing he'd spoken it out loud.

"Keep your wits about you, milord. We don't know what lays in wait for us ahead these woods," murmured Aleyn, a light pink blush speckling along his cheeks as he no doubt was having trouble ridding his mind of uncomfortable visual images of his commanding officer and Lady Sansa Stark.

Ramsay pursed his lips into a thin line, half tempted to remind the young archer who was barely older than Reek, and hardly looked old enough to shave the two day jaw stubble that he dared to classify as the beginnings of facial hair, just who exactly was in charge here. Instead, he settled for a curt nod. "Aye," he agreed. Ramsay chuckled as the archer disappeared back into the tree's canopy, shaking his head in disbelief.

The boy was just like Reek, climbing things he ought not and disappearing through his line of sight. Briefly, he wondered what the deformed little wretch would think of the archer if he were to introduce the pair of them to one another if they would get along. Ramsay frowned, craning his neck upwards towards the forest canopy, rolling his neck to crack it as he did so, scowling and furrowing his thick dark brows into a frown as he glanced about above their heads to keep track of Aleyn.

He shook his head softly to himself, wondering what exactly it could be about this damned forsaken forest that was causing himself and his men so much confusion? They prided themselves on their ability to keep a level head under stressful situations, such as combat when off fighting a war. They were soldiers. The air felt strange here. Suffocating, almost heavy, and not to mention even in the thick of winter, somehow fucking hot. So bloody hot. And the woodlands around them seemed ominously quiet. Ramsay paused, now that even the sound of his own footfalls was silent, all that could be heard was the susurration of the leaves in the gusty wind.

Looking up, Ramsay was momentarily transfixed by the myriad of fluttering colors in various hues of browns, that danced in the high boughs, making a living roof above them, one that was so thick it was impossible to tell where they were here.

He felt strangely calmed, almost hypnotized in a way, he supposed, but the longer Ramsay stared at the falling leaves, the more they looked like eyes staring back down at Ramsay and his men, and the boughs seemed to draw closer to himself and he could feel Aleyn come to stand beside his captain, and he heard his lieutenant's breath catch in his throat. The boughs felt like they were drawing closer, blocking the almost blindingly white moonlight, as if the damned leaves were forming a cage around them. "Come," growled Ramsay, grinding his teeth in anger. "The sooner we secure the perimeter, the sooner we can go home and lay with our wives. Or, _I_ will, rather. You need yourself a girl, Aleyn."

His youngest and smartest lieutenant shot him a sheepish grin and mumbled some half-hearted excuse about why he had not found a woman yet worthy of his affections and love, or if he had, he kept silent about his love life, and Ramsay rolled his eyes as he watched the younger man's face blush a light pink, though Ramsay took pity on the kid and claimed it was merely the cold winter air. Ramsay swallowed past the lump in his throat as he stared angrily out into the swirling mist that crept its way at a petty pace, going deeper into the woods and creeping towards Ramsay and the rest of his company.

The familiar sight of the woods Ramsay patrolled on a nightly basis was made hazy by this sudden mist, and for a moment, Ramsay raised a hand to ensure he was still here. He was. This de-focused world was incredibly cold. Billions of icy vaporized drops blew down the dark-haired man's neck and up the legs of his breeches. It did not just slowly drain his body heat; it stole it the second it made contact. It swooped in and skirted around the tree boughs.

Ramsay stood in a pocket of it, but it only seemed like a pocket to the young Bolton lord. He knew that he too was swallowed, eradicated by this engulfing whiteness. It hurt his eyes. It was so…white. Staring at it made Ramsay feel like he was staring at himself, staring at nothing. His mind fought hard to drum up a thousand different descriptions to plaster across it. But there was nothing that could truly describe nothing. Each thought he had seemed quite loud and exposed, just like every movement Ramsay made in the encroaching silence that wrapped like the fog around him and Aleyn.

Maybe the fog was somehow in him, just as he was in it. The early evening fog loomed as far as he could see, it was almost tangible, shrouding everything in a thick white veil, the light barely managing to penetrate the haze. The sounds of birdsong and crickets and other insects and animals in these fucking damned cursed woods that should have been filling the air around him all seemed to have disappeared, even his footsteps had been swallowed by the greedy beast that was this stupid fog.

Just as Ramsay was about to start throwing things in anger as he allowed his mind to wonder if he and his company would ever make it out of these damned words, a strange, muffled, faint noise rent the otherwise silent night air and caused Ramsay's ears to perk up at the strange sound. It was a small sound, coming from Ramsay's left, so faint at first, Ramsay of the guard wasn't even quite sure he had heard the noise to begin with. Aleyn opened his mouth to speak, but at the urging of his superior, seeing Ramsay quietly raise a finger to his lips, silently communicating with his lieutenant to keep quiet, the younger, dark-haired soldier immediately clamped his mouth shut and gave a curt nod.

Ramsay was barely aware he was almost leaning forward in order to better hear the noise and would have stumbled on another damned tree root if Aleyn had shot out an arm to catch him. "Thanks," Ramsay grumbled, and immediately fell silent again as he strained to listen. Ah, there it was again!

There was certainly some activity going on this forest, however small, but it sounded much too faint to be a wolf. A squirrel, perhaps, for he could hear the rustling of leaves. Ramsay heard it again. It sounded like a strange sort of whimpering or crying. Ramsay narrowed his piercing blue eyes in suspicion and stared off into the distance, trying to see any indication that someone was nearby.

"Aleyn," Ramsay whispered in as quiet a voice as he could, "stay sharp. We're not alone. Be on your guard…"

His archer nodded, lips parted open slightly in shock, when a muffled little squeak interrupted his thoughts.

"H—hello?" Both Ramsay and Aleyn exchanged a shocked look. _Reek_ , thought Ramsay, gritting his teeth in anger. _Seven hells_. What in the gods' names was _he_ doing out here? "Please help me! I—I'm lost." Wherever the little fucking prick was, Reek sounded very faint, but audible enough for the two men to tell he was close by.

Ramsay's lips pursed into a thin line and his eyebrows shot so far up onto his forehead that they almost disappeared into his hairline. "Reek? Is that you?"

It seemed to take several minutes for the broken Greyjoy in question to find his voice. "Y—yes, M—Master. L—Lady Stark b—bade me come, i—in danger, milord," came Reek's soft whisper, which sounded more like a gasp. The kid sounded breathless, like he was running out of air.

Ramsay cringed visibly as he glanced around towards his left, where the sound of Reek's voice had originally come from, hoping to spot any sign of movement.

Ramsay had never heard Reek's voice sound so scared, and the wretch's words that Sansa was in danger chilled his blood, rendering it to ice in his veins, and he felt the color drain from his face. He hoped the boy hadn't been attacked. That was his job, after all. "Keep talking to us," he called out, his loud, deep voice reverberating through the forest grounds, instructing the boy as he quickened his pace, motioning with a curt wave of his arm for Aleyn to follow him. He wanted to feel relief that the sound he had heard was not, in fact, a wolf, but instead, Reek's tiny, panicked voice only made Ramsay worry even more.

What if his wife was back at Winterfell and was gravely injured, then what? "I've my archer, Aleyn, here with me. The two of us are going to find you and escort you out of here, Reek, and then you are going to tell me every fucking thing you know," Ramsay growled, curling his hand into a tight fist around the hilt of his dagger. "Hang on."

"Oh, thank the gods!" the young man's voice wept. Reek sounded like he had been crying and was on the verge of perhaps a mental breakdown, which made it that much more imperative that Ramsay and Aleyn reach the boy, and fast. Ramsay resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the boy's weakness. "I—I've been lost f—for quite a while." The kid's teeth chattered. Reek sounded like he was absolutely freezing.

"I think we're getting closer," Aleyn called out to Reek. "Keeping talking to us, Ramsay and I are following the sound of your voice. Talk to us, and we _will_ find you, Theon."

The man's voice let out a strangled attempt at speech that manifested itself into a half-choked sob.

"I can't…"

"Yes, you can," Aleyn reassured the voice soothingly. "Keep talking to us." He glanced towards Ramsay; whose frown only deepened the closer they got. Ramsay could tell the archer was thinking the same thing he was.

That Sansa had been hurt, and she had sent Reek into the godswoods after Ramsay and his men in the hopes of trying to catch them before they left the godswoods. All the men heard as a reply were soft sobs. Whatever had happened to Reek had not been good, for the boy to be traipsing about this damned forest, and without any guide or escort.

"Where are you…Theon?" Ramsay asked gently, surprised at how fluidly the boy's real name rolled off his tongue, and the first time he'd used his true name instead of calling him Reek after all this time. Perhaps Sansa had changed him in more ways than one. "What do you see around you?" Wherever Reek was hiding, Ramsay supposed the boy sounded intelligent enough, and would be able to distinguish his location from the rest of the woods, even in Reek's panicked and distraught state of mind, but the men needed to keep the young man speaking in order to discern his location and follow the sound of his voice.

"Trees…" the young Greyjoy man wailed. Ramsay shook his head slightly, but he could tell he and Aleyn were getting close, but they could still not see any sign of him. "Can you still hear me?" he asked, her voice cracking and wavering.

"Yes," Aleyn answered steadily, his grip upon the hilt of his sword tightening, his fingers twitching as they neared closer towards the sound, which now included the occasional sob and sniffle, likely the boy was holding back tears.

Ramsay quickened his pace to a light jog just as soon as he could see a flash of blue and brown through the trees. Reek was resting against the trunk of an old oak tree, the bark of the tree likely digging into his back, quite possibly ruining his tattered clothes that he wore, though Ramsay of the guard had a feeling the kid was more concerned with other matters at the moment than the well-being of the state of his clothing.

Reek's knees were pulled up against his chest and his fingers were tightly clutching onto a small brown satchel as though his very livelihood depended on it, which for all Ramsay knew of this situation, it did, and if he had come bearing news of Lady Stark, then by the gods and the light of the seven, he was going to help them.

Before Ramsay could so much as make another move towards the shaken boy, his archer bolted forward and knelt at Theon's side, putting a tender softly on the boy's shaking shoulder, carefully assessing Theon's condition, not caring when the younger boy violently shirked back from Aleyn's touch. He saw Aleyn stiffen involuntarily, and Ramsay shook his head no, furrowing his brow in a frown.

Aleyn nodded, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he gingerly grabbed the broken man from the Iron Islands by his arm and gently pulled him to his feet, helping Theon to stand. "Are you injured?" he wondered. The lieutenant imagined the poor boy was simply scared. Neither of them knew how long Theon might have been wandering these damned cursed godswoods on his own out here.

This place had an eerie habit of turning the seconds into minutes, the minutes into hours almost unnaturally fast. Something about these woods had always felt cursed to Ramsay, like the forest had been tainted with black magic.

Theon standing before the two men for all they knew of the bastard could have been lost out here alone for hours, which would explain how panicked Theon appeared, his dark eyes darting wildly to the left and right, searching for a way out. The young man wrenched his arm out of Aleyn's grip, ignoring his offended look.

Theon mumbled a half-hearted apology and hastily bent the knee at Ramsay's feet. "F—forgive me, milord, b—but Lady Stark bade I find you. The—your—your lord father, he…wants her. Says he will burn her if she does not agree to m—marry him. A—and…" Theon bit his bottom lip in a slight pout. "There's something else. She…your wife is p—pregnant, milord. M—Maester Wolkan. We must go now. Save Lady Sansa. Save her…save her…" he whimpered.

Ramsay felt his blood in his veins now begin to thaw at Theon's words, though he could not help the shadow of doubt that crossed his features and he stifled a low growl from the back of his throat and without warning, wrapped a strong hand around the pale column of Theon Greyjoy's small throat. "You do not _lie_ to me, Theon, I know when you are lying to me. Tell me the truth," Reek whisper hissed through clenched teeth. "Your words. Who did you hear them from? Are they true?"

"L—Lady Stark, milord." Theon choked, coughing, and gasping for air as he pitifully clawed at Ramsay's hand with both of his hands, struggling in vain to pry Ramsay Bolton off of him. "She told me." Ramsay paused, feeling his glacier eyes gloss over at Theon's words. His brain stuttered for a moment and his eyes took in more blinding winter light than expected, and every part of him went on pause while his thoughts processed Theon Greyjoy's revelations. Ramsay turned back to Theon, whose gaze immediately dropped to the snow-covered ground beneath their boots, too terrified to speak, and was about to say something, when he felt a searing, fiery pain in his right ribcage.

His lips parted open, the color drained from his face, rendering his features ashen and pallid, giving him a look of a walking corpse as Ser Aleyn's dagger in his hands met Ramsay's flesh, soft and pudgy, and made a satisfying squishing sound as the tip of the blade sank deep enough to make his victim scream. Ser Aleyn twisted the blade in his hands, all the while sinking it deeper and deeper into the Bastard of Bolton's side. He grinned as blood poured from Ramsay's mouth. "W—why?" he choked.

"Why not? Your father has promised me titles, lands, a castle of my own, whatever I want in exchange for your head on a pike," Aleyn responded coldly as he watched as the Bastard of Bolton's skin was tearing to shreds as he rotated the knife deep in Ramsay's ribcage, the sound of his muscles and nerves being gouged growing even louder. Then without warning, he jerked it out, and Ramsay's cry of pain was a brilliant sound, guttural chokes intermingled with an agonizing roar.

Aleyn smirked and pulled the blade out of his now deathly white victim. Ramsay sank to his knees, continuing to scream, convulsing, and trembling like a rabid animal, thick blood flowing freely from the gaping hole in his side. He didn't even care that the broken man from the Iron Islands rushed to his side and attempted to help his Master up. They wouldn't make it out of these damn woods alive.

Not with his wounds. The cascade of the Skinflayer's life source seemed like it was gushing out in the one direction, scarlet liquid staining the pristine white snow a thick garish red. He turned away as Ramsay's screams became quieter, Theon Greyjoy's pleas for the archer to show mercy nothing but a faint whisper, his words nothing but wind, the sweet tang of Ramsay Bolton's blood tingling in his nostrils. He smirked and turned back towards the Greyjoy boy of the Iron Islands, who'd stepped in front of his Master and had shakily risen to his feet, Ramsay Bolton's own dagger in his trembling hands.

"Y—you will not harm Master any further or Lady Stark, Ser Aleyn. I made a promise to Lady Sansa to protect her and lay down my own life if it comes to that, and I aim to keep that promise," he growled, and Aleyn was surprised to hear Theon's voice carry and grow louder through the winds of winter. "What hides behind your vicious lies are truths that failed to get to the light," he snarled, closing off the gap of space as Ser Aleyn took a step backward. "And the plain the truth of the matter is that you, Ser Aleyn, have met the end of the line. This is it. The end of the line, and like it or not, you must apologize to Master for all the trouble you've caused," Theon whisper hissed through gritted teeth. The broken man of the Iron Islands lifted his chin and jutted it out slightly defiantly to meet Ser Aleyn's eyes, and Aleyn threw back his head and laughed, and Theon let out a low growl.

"Do you know what I am, boy?" I am a person," the young archer confessed in a low tone when Theon did not immediately respond to his question, feeling his voice go dangerously quiet. "Or I was one once, a person, a being with scars and bruises all over my body, red trickly blood running down my sides. You, Bolton, made me this way," he snarled, glancing towards Ramsay, who looked like he was on the verge of passing out, fighting every step to stay awake. "The very picture of misery the minute I was born," he growled, baring his canines, and revealed his teeth to Theon, whose face blanched, but he did not avert his gaze.

He'd come all this way now; he couldn't very well lose his nerve.

Aleyn continued. "My people, the Wildings, said time could heal things. But I never healed, or even became better. I'm nothing more than a visionary with a dream," he growled, and he lifted his chin to meet Theon's gaze. "I don't care what you think of me as long as you obey me, boy. I know I have odd methods, but they work. I know what life should be like and I understand that many things and creatures are inferior to me. In my position it is simply mercy. I know if I don't save them with the wonders of death. they will die in the horror of life. Some people are born good and always fight off the bad. Some people are born bad and become good through great effort. Others are born in light and fall to darkness. And others are born in darkness and cannot see the light. Try as you might to believe otherwise, everyone fits into one of those categories. Which one are you? Are you good or bad? Light or dark? God or man? I know what I am. When I came of age, I realized the life ahead of me was one of anger, pain, and hatred. Of darkness. Did I want that? Yeah. I did. I grew up surrounded by fire and ash and poison and death. It was the only thing I knew, so of course I wanted it. I was never taught what love was. What kindness was. In fact, in my entire childhood I think I saw just one type of smile - a smile full of malice and cruel intent, from both my parents."

Theon felt his body start to tremble uncontrollably. He had not come here to find Master in these fucking woods just to Aleyn's sob story. White knuckled from clenching his fist too hard, and gritted teeth from his effort to remain silent, Theon's tense form exuded an animosity that was like acid—burning, slicing, and utterly potent. His face was white with suppressed rage, and he mentally snapped.

Legend says that for someone who was like Theon was, like Ramsay had been before Sansa, that their hearts died in their chest cavities long ago, and that was how they became killers and perhaps why. The witches of the northern isle, and those even as far as King's Landing said the emptiness was their madness. That someone like Theon took a life over and over again, as if he thought that would allow him to possess a heart and soul again following the loss of his wife, yet it was never so.

To be healed, they said, someone pure had to love each of them, to reform their heart as if it was the finest of clay, then set it to beating with pure nature's essence. So, until Theon, and to a lesser extent, Ramsay, could find such a being to forgive all that he had done wrong in life, to break the universal scales and set his soul free to begin anew, he'd kill. "But only one," he swore through gritted teeth, the cold steel of his blade came swiftly out of his tunic sleeve, where Theon had hidden it and buried the small weapon in Aleyn's stomach right to the hilt.

Theon looked at his stupid, surprised eyes and gave it a twist for good measure. He shoved Aleyn as he rolled to one side.

The older man groaned and gurgled as he bled out, his skin graying as the light and life force slowly left his eyes. "Now, then," growled Theon, spitting at the archer's feet and kneeling down in the snow, cupping the younger boy's chin in his hand and crinkling his nose in disgust. "I suppose, I could be cruel and torture you before you I kill you," Theon stated calmly, intertwining his fingers, and kneeling in the snow by Aleyn as he groveled and bled out on the forest floor at Theon Greyjoy's feet. "Considering what you did to Master just now, to Lady Stark by betraying her trust, there's no question in my mind that it would be appropriate. _Master_. However," Theon sighed, almost sounding bored, and Ramsay's eyes shot wide open.

For a split second, Theon Greyjoy sounded just like Ramsay had been, enjoying taking a life.

Theon hadn't noticed Ramsay's shock and continued speaking to Ser Aleyn. "Unfortunately, I'm not as vulgar as you. So, I think I'll just sit here and watch until you've taken your last miserable breath. Judging by your wounds, I'd say you have about five minutes at best. I dedicate these last few minutes of your miserable, wretched fucking pathetic life to Lady Stark and Ramsay Bolton. May they rule the North with an iron fist. Together. You will not win today. Go to hell, you piece of shit."

Aleyn struggled to say something, but the blood coating the back of his throat like a thick slime made it difficult for the archer to breathe. True to his word, Theon's face was the last thing he saw before he died. Hell was nothing like Aleyn had imagined, but then he'd never felt such a pain in all his life, so, how could he?

Pain had been something for his victims and how he'd loved seeing it radiated from their eyes and their stretched wide mouths screaming into the empty fields. He had never believed in the gods, in the heavens or the seven hells, but idly he had wondered why this omnipotent being didn't stop him.

Perhaps this was a God of war, of pain and suffering, perhaps he was to be honored in the next life. He had liked that thought. On his death he was not given a choice of punishment, instead the gods had bestowed upon him perfect clarity- the ability to understand as a deity does the suffering inflicted on his victims, the pain of their loved ones and the pain of the gods. He understood in that brilliant flash that the gods could only act through the willing heart and mind. Aleyn fell, begging for ignorance, amnesia, or a chance to right his wrongs but the gods were gone, underfoot was a grassy field, screams rent the air...

Satisfied that the man who had gravely injured Master was dead and had put Lady Sansa's life in danger by turning her over to Roose, Theon rose from the ground, draping one hand around Ramsay's back, slinging his arm over Theon's shoulder. "M—Master, you must help me," Theon stammered, his momentary brevity and resolve fleeing him as he glanced down at Ramsay's wounds.

"Walk for me. I—I can help you g—get back to Winterfell, b—but you are heavy, Master. I cannot do it on my own. Can you walk?" Theon asked nervously, biting his bottom lip in a slight pout. When Ramsay nodded, Theon Greyjoy exhaled a shaking sigh of relief and shook his head to clear it. Ramsay staggered forward a few steps with the help of Theon, but not before spitting at the corpse of Ser Aleyn as they neared the edge of the godswoods. Thank the gods their encampment hadn't gone far.

"Th—Theon," Ramsay rasped weakly, his voice sounding much softer than usual. Theon blinked and halted in his tracks, glancing sideways at Master out of the corner of his eyes. "Th…thank you."

Words left Theon. Master…saying _thank you?!_ He gulped nervously, wondering if this was but another trap and an excuse for Master to hit him again and stared numbly into Master Bolton's bright blue eyes burning with anger, and his heart fell silent, knowing full well that he needed to say something—anything—to Ramsay, but…

But everything felt slow, like he was submerged underwater. His mind felt blank and his eyes wide as he stared at Ramsay in horror. His blue eyes desperately searched Theon's…waiting for his answer.

Theon searched his mind for something reasonable to say, grunting with the effort as he helped Ramsay to walk, groaning slightly under Ramsay's added bulky weight, but by the gods and damn him to a lake of hell fire in the seven hells, he had promised Lady Sansa he would return with him.

Theon could hear Ramsay exhale a shaking pained breath of relief as the edges of Winterfell came into their line of sight. They were almost back. Another mile or so, and they would be home.

Theon wracked his mind for something reasonable to say to Master, but to his surprise, his heart answered for him.

"You're welcome."


	27. Sansa-Ramsay

**SANSA/RAMSAY**

The fear coursed through Sansa Stark's veins but never quite made it to her facial muscles or skin. Her complexion remained pale; her eyes steady as she wrapped her knuckles around the iron grilles of her cage in Winterfell's dungeons. She crinkled her nose in disgust and made a mental note to ask someone about possibly overseeing renovations to ensure more humane conditions for their prisoners. She had screamed and shouted herself hoarse at Lord Roose and his guards until she lost her voice. _He won't set me free. I'm trapped in here and going to die. For all I know, he is already dead_.

Surrounded by four walls of stone, there was nothing else to do but stare at them. To look at the cracks in the dungeon that had been gouged by other prisoners—anything to pass the time, slowly going mad—she theorized absurd meanings from the wall's blank staring.

"Roose!" she shouted, not even bothering with proper edict by addressing the bastard's father by his proper title, her knuckles white as she clutched onto the bars of her cage. "I know you hear me, Bolton! Let me free right now, or I swear to the seven hells below that I'll kill you and you'll rot in hell for all eternity, I swear it!"

She was met with naught but silence. All Lady Stark could do was sit slumped against the cold stone wall of her cage, though it felt more like this pit of despair had become her new little world.

Sansa Stark was well and truly trapped. She had nothing left to live for with Ramsay likely dead at the bottom of a ravine somewhere in the heart of the godswoods, and she would be damned to a hellish life if she was forced to suffer a painful death via immolation, or an even worse fate by marrying Roose Bolton. She wouldn't. She couldn't. Lord Bolton had taken everything good away from Sansa, and the young redhead was not going to give the man the satisfaction of watching it.

Sansa hung her head, allowing a lock of fiery red hair to fall like a curtain in front of her face, effectively shielding the rest of her pitiful cage from her view. She did not wish to look upon anything but _his_ face. Her Ramsay. Her husband. Her love. She shivered, clutching herself as it was fairly cold in here, and she could feel the cold and slimy fingers just crawling up her spine and squeezing her neck with all the strength they had, suffocating Sansa until she could not breathe well.

Fear. It was an emotion that was so human. The tightness in Lady Stark's throat constricted as she reached out a hand to steady herself. It felt like ever since Lord Roose had confessed everything to her at the edge of the godswoods, upon learning that Ramsay, that Bastard of Bolton, the Skinflayer, had grown to love something and someone other than himself, that she couldn't breathe.

Her breaths came to her in short, shaking breaths, like her muscles were ready to give up the fight on their own. The darkness, that demon inside her head, began to close in, whispering wicked thoughts to her of wanting to slit Roose's throat the next time he came back. Maybe it was the coldness, maybe it was the shaking of Sansa's limbs that caused every muscle in her body to seize and tense up stiffly. Sansa Stark did not know for certain. All Sansa did know for certain was that what she was feeling right now robbed her very ability to breathe, just like it seemed to rob away the encroaching dawn as the sun peeked over the horizon. But a few more hours and she would burn.

Standing shakily and going to stand over next to the barred window that allowed her to gaze out at the horizon, at the godswoods' edge, Sansa had to strain to see into the darkness to see if she could spot any signs of Theon or of Ramsay. Nothing. She let out an anguished cry of agony and sobbed.

Lord Bolton had taken away the one man she had grown to care for, and even love, in her own way, and Sansa did not think she could bear it if she allowed further harm to come to Ramsay.

She would save him, even if it cost Sansa her own life. Ramsay as well as a few others had become quite fond of telling Sansa at every opportunity that only death may pay for life, and if that was what Sansa had to do so that Ramsay would live to see and fight another day, then so be it, then.

Sansa would die for Ramsay if it came to that. The She-Wolf of Winterfell felt the dread creep over her spine like a spider leaving a careful trail of silk. She never should have allowed him to leave.

Sansa blinked as she could swear she could hear her lord mother and father's words echoing and ringing in her eardrums. _"You can save him,"_ Lady Catelyn's voice whispered into the shell of her ear, exhilaration in her mother's tone. _"Your lord husband will be just fine, daughter. Do not fret."_

"How?" Sansa wailed, and she could hear the audible crack and dip in her voice as she wavered on the only word she could manage to utter. "I—if something happens to him because of me, of what I am, then I… _I_ am the one who deserves to burn, _not_ him, I would not forgive myself, Mother," she cried, burying her face in her hands, anguished. The darkness swirling around in Sansa's tired head had fueled within her an unquenchable fire that threatened to burn down anything Sansa's cobalt blue eyes came into contact with. As she heard learned, the hottest fires always burned blue.

She blearily lifted her head from her hands and swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. Ah, but gods, she must be going insane, to converse with the spirits of her mother and father, as though both her parents were seated right next to her on the damp, moldy floor of this pit of despair.

"H—how do you know?" she whispered, her frightened voice wafting through the empty cell.

 _"Because,"_ Lord Eddard answered stoically, and Sansa clenched her eyes shut as she felt a strange squeezing pressure upon her shoulder, and she could imagine her father here with her, giving the appendage a gentle, reassuring squeeze, as if to reassure his eldest daughter that everything was going to be all right, _"He has you."_ Sansa blinked owlishly and glanced to her right and to the left.

Nothing. She faltered in her resolve for a moment, her confidence that had until just now previously soared to unheard of levels, thanks to her father's final parting remark, faltered and vanished as Sansa realized that the hardest part lay ahead of her. Confronting Lord Roose over what he had done. This thought was still on her mind as she waited for one of the guards, probably Mikael, to come and fetch her to escort her towards the square, where no doubt, a pyre was waiting for her.

Sansa decided that if she lived through this, she would ask Ramsay if they could have a second home built for them, a summer home, perhaps, in the thicket of the godswoods. Make a clearing.

Have a home for just the two of them, and…their baby. And that thought ignited the small spark of hope within Sansa's chest, that Ramsay was going to be safe, because he would find a way to return to them. She felt her hand instinctively drift towards her flat abdomen and felt a surge of over-protectiveness and a newfound determination to life, if not for herself, then their child, take over.

That same spark of hope ignited a tiny flame deep within Lady Stark's chest, just a flicker against the bitter Northern breeze, but it was enough for the distraught young redhead to find her inner resolve. "I'm going to save us, Ramsay," she swore underneath her breath. "I can promise you that."

A tiny muffled noise reached Sansa's eardrums, like the sound of something shuffling along the dungeon's stone walls. Her back was still turned, facing the window, and it wasn't until Sansa heard the sound of Ramsay's voice reaching her eardrums, and her ears perked up at the beautiful noise.

"Are you o—okay?" he asked the question smoothly, the baritone of his voice reverberating through Sansa's bones as she stood, remaining rooted to her spot in her wretched prison cell, exhaling a shaking breath as the sound of jangling keys turning in the door's locking mechanisms reached her.

The low rumble of his voice was comforting as it wrapped around Sansa and carried her off into a world where the sound of her lord husband's voice was the power that could change everything wrong in the world. _Could it be? No_ , her inner demonic voice that did not sound like herself growled, stronger than that little voice of hope that still resonated within the confines of her mind.

But still…hesitantly, Sansa turned around felt her blue eyes widen. Ramsay stood in the entryway of her prison cell's door, looking on the brink of collapse, supported by Theon's weight.

He had come home to her.

* * *

Ramsay blinked. There she was. His cobalt-eyed, beautiful angel of a wife with the fingertips of flame that scorched and burned his skin every time she dared to touch his scarred skin, and the hair like winter fire. He swallowed hard and blinked, quite certain that Sansa Stark standing in front of him was an angel. He had thought for certain the entire walk back over here that Roose had killed her.

He and Theon hadn't gone the rest of the way without encountering…difficulties. They had run into Myranda, and Ramsay, under false pretenses of rekindling what they had once had, had coerced Myranda into confessing everything. He had intended to let her go, but that final smirk of hers had been the kennel bitch's undoing, and Ramsay had not hesitated to stab the bitch in her fucking heart. No one, _especially_ not Myranda, would keep the Bastard of Bolton from his wife, and now, if the words Theon had uttered back in the woods were true, their child. His child. His son. Or daughter. It mattered not. What did matter was reaching Sansa before his lord father to make sure that she was safe. And she would be, as long as Ramsay ensured his wife remained by his side.

Where the both of them knew that she belonged. Forever, if he would have his way, and Ramsay _always_ got his way. He had been about to open his mouth to apologize to her, when the sound of barreling footsteps pounded through the prison's small cell as she ran to him, flinging her arms around Ramsay's neck and covering his mouth with hers in a passionate kiss. He broke it off first and stared at her in an odd way, as if it were a silent argument between them.

Their glances battled each other, until tears arose, and both found themselves crying. He was surprised as he could not recall these goddamned wretched tears ever escaping from his eyes. Ever. "By the gods," he sniffed, turning away, and blinking it back angrily. "See what you do you to me, woman?" Ramsay growled, his tears rolling down with the same quietness in fast tracts down his deathly-white cheeks, and Sansa was given no time to react as he cradled Sansa's head in his hands and passionately pressed his lips to hers.

He pulled apart first. "Why did you do it? You—you should have told me the truth, and I would never have left your side. That you're expecting. You should have told me, Sansa. Why did you not?" Ramsay demanded angrily, tears rolling down with the same quietness. He sighed, wiping his own tears, before looking away from him and wandering toward the window with a curious slowness. His hand was curled around his stomach and he staggered in mental and physical pain.

Sansa felt an urge to do something to comfort him, but also herself. In a moment she pressed her lips against his, felt his body loosen and arms touch her shoulders. Lady Stark chuckled beneath her salty tears as they flowed in graceful tracts down her pale face. Without a word, she pressed her lips to his again, her kiss slow and passionate this time. "That is your answer as to why," she whispered.

"Because…I could not let your lord father hurt you anymore, milord. I think that…" She hesitated, biting her bottom lip in an adorable little pout that were the topic of conversation not so serious, Ramsay might have laughed her. "I didn't mean to…to chase you away," she whispered softly, her voice so faint that her husband had to lean forward slightly to hear her better. "I-it's just that…I didn't think that I deserved your affection after what Roose tried to get me to do, and I did not know how you would take kindly to my news," she responded, a pained look in her blue eyes. "B-but I…I really do like you, and do not believe you to be so cruel. Not anymore," Sansa confessed, reaching up a hand to caress his cheek while simultaneously brushing back that one stubborn lock of dark hair out of his left eye. "I like you a lot. And I never…" Her voice trailed off, as she looked away as he took her hands in his, caressing her fingers with the pad of his thumb gently. "I never want to hurt you. I never meant to hurt you, Ramsay…" Sansa swiveled her head back to face him again, seemingly not wanting to meet his eyes, and it was only when she felt his finger on her chin, cupping it in his strong hand she felt the familiar tilt upward as he forced her to look into those brilliant blue eyes.

"Tell me. I want to hear you say it," he urged, the desperation in his voice almost too much.

"I think I…I think I love you," she whispered shyly, biting her bottom lip again in that adorable pout that was currently driving him crazy, if only she knew just how much.

Ramsay stared deep into her eyes. His other hand shook slightly, still cupping her cheek in his hand, his mind screaming at him to pull away, to stop this before it was too late. _Don't do this, don't do this_ … But the sound of his heart was beating so loudly that he couldn't seem to concentrate on anything else. It felt like he was going to implode if he didn't do something. Finally, after much hesitation on his part, his lips touched hers, gently at first.

The dungeons felt like it was slowly disappearing around the two of them, along with all of their worries, their troubles, and problems. For a moment, he forgot about his bastard betrayer of a father, or the fact that she was somehow here with him, which meant that she had escaped his father's wrath.

Sansa made Ramsay feel like none of that mattered. It was a small yet warm kiss. He honestly never knew a kiss so innocent could be so incredibly intimate and such a bringer of warmth, sending an incredible heat throughout his body, changing his blood, coursing through his veins.

Her lips were moving in perfect sync, his hands feeling her waist. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, slightly more passionate than before. Ramsay felt her hands on the back of his neck play with the ends of his hair. A smile grew on his face as it started to tickle.

Finally, they pulled apart, and he reluctantly took a step or two backward, loosening his grip on her waist. Immediately, something was wrong, he could tell. Her face was deathly white, far too pale to be considered healthy. Crimson stained her left ribcage, and she let out a breathy little squeak. The blood flowed thickly over her fingers, warm and sticky, garish.

"NO!" Ramsay screamed, watching as his wife's legs began to crumple and give out beneath her. He reached up with stained crimson palms that were trembling and gingerly pressed one of his hands over the wound in Sansa's side. "Don't go to sleep. Fight it. Y—you must fight it. You're going to be okay, I promise," he whispered, leaning down, and brushing aside a lock of her hair to whisper it into her ear. "You are a Wolf of Winterfell, Lady Stark. You wolves do not go down easily, Stark. Then _be_ a wolf. Be strong. Do it for me."

He blinked back cursed briny tears that he let freely fall, and it was only when a dark shadow loomed over the pair as he cradled her limp form in his arms that he became aware of his father coldly wiping his dagger with a white pristine handkerchief that had stained it blood red. The violent red of her wound stained Ramsay's shaking hands as he adjusted her head, so that it lolled back slightly against his elbow.

The first thing he noticed was how white she looked and how fragile Sansa felt. She was like glass and now she was broken, not whole. The crimson color burned in Ramsay's mind along with what Roose had just done. A sickness crawled within him as he swallowed past the lump in his form and blinked back his briny tears. A small sob worked its way out of his throat as he brushed back a lock of red hair from her forehead as her eyes closed, the color rapidly draining from her face. Sansa's eyelids fluttered open and she let out a tiny groan, her own hands clutching onto the wound.

"Hurts," Sansa whimpered in a voice that was barely soft, if Ramsay hadn't already been hanging onto her every word, then most likely, Ramsay would have missed it. "Ramsay, I…"

"I—I know it does," he croaked hoarsely, completely ignoring the cold scathing look in his lord father's eyes as the tall imposing Warden of the North towered over his bastard son, who had slumped against the wall of Sansa's prison cell for support, careful to support her head in his arms, using his thighs as a means of support to hold her lower body. "I—I'm going to save you. Y-you're…home," he whispered, the pads of his fingertips caressing her too-white cheek.

"Home?" Seven hells, but her voice sounded much too faint. Sansa was fading, and fast.

"With me," he pleaded, choking back another sob.

"Home," she repeated, the faintest ghost of a smile playing at her lips.

"You can…you can stay up here. With me. Forever. Stay…"

"I don't think…Forever?" she asked, smiling when he nodded, unable to seem to find the words to speak. "You're…you're such a good man, Ramsay, and a good…" But she didn't get to finish her sentence as a violent coughing spell overtook the young woman's lungs, and she struggled to breathe.

There was no amount of horror that could prepare a person for seeing the life force ebb from another, the hopelessness, the tearing at the soul that was the departing of the other. That's how it felt for Ramsay as he watched the color rapidly drain from Sansa's face as her eyes closed, her head lolling to the side. It seemed a moment before Roose spoke again.

When the Warden did, his voice was cold and emotionless. "Is the Stark bitch dead?" he growled, coming to stand next to his bastard son and place a surprisingly tender hand on Ramsay's back. "Well?"

Ramsay let out a low guttural growl from the back of his throat as he felt his grip tighten on the young redhead's corpse. He was only briefly aware of the sound of running footsteps and the horrified yells and cries of outrage as Theon came barreling back into the torture chamber, having darted outside to deal with a pair of guards, the balcony. "Because of _you_ ," he snarled, no warmth left in his voice. Not anymore.

There would be no love for the man who he had once considered a father. Ramsay wondered if he could lose his humanity in a single moment. If humanity were something that could leave forever. Or if it had a deep place inside of everyone, even when he swore that his wasn't there? Some of them showed it more than others, perhaps. Others blocked it out, just as Ramsay felt himself doing now. He was hardly human. Not anymore. The only thing left was a monster. Did he still have humanity? Did he still have a soul after this? He had been human once. Maybe…he had been human the entire time, but…

Maybe he had blocked all his humanity out so he could taste the only thing he craved now: _Revenge_. A human stopped being a human when a human loses its humanity, and in the moment, Ramsay knew as he cradled the lifeless corpse of the beautiful angel in his arms who held his heart that he would never love again, and it took Winterfell's Bastard of Bolton, the Skinflayer exactly five minutes for him to lose his.

All that was left was… A monster. He choked back another sob of anguish and continued his light caressing of Sansa's red hair, his hands finding purchase in the back of her hair. He felt that familiar spark of anger ignite deep within the pit of his chest as his gaze drifted down towards her lifeless pale face. "You _killed_ her." It escaped from his chest as a hissed whisper.

"It was my duty, my son. The girl made her choice. Now we can finally go back to the way things were. Your mind will be set free from the confines of her tempting ways and her distractions, boy," he breathed, exhaling a shaking breath, his ironclad grip upon Ramsay's shoulder tightening a little.

"No." His voice deepened, as did the growl rumbling in his chest. "Things will never go back to the way they were, Father. I had done _everything_ that you ever asked of me without complaint," he snarled. He spat the word 'Father' as though it were poison that had settled on his tongue. He slowly stood, gingerly placing Sansa's body on the ground, hardly noticing as Theon and one of the kitchen women, Hilda, for she was quite on friendly terms with Lady Sansa, he thought her name to be, knelt to check for a pulse. With one last glance, one look of distraught anguish over his shoulder at her lifeless corpse, still so beautiful, even in death, he felt the worst of his temper flare as he turned back around to face Lord Roose Bolton. "What is it of me that you hate so much, Father? **WHY DO YOU HATE ME? SANSA IS MY WIFE, YOU FUCKING BASTARD, AND EVEN NOW, YOU WOULD STEAL HER FROM ME? WHAT DO YOU WANT**?" he growled.

"You'll see," responded Roose, unfazed by his bastard son's growing temper and ignoring his son's final question. "At last, you are free of this girl's evil spell. I have saved you. The poison that was corrupting your mind has been vanquished alongside her. Now that you are free, your mind free of distractions, we can go on, as close as once we were, my dear son, here in our home. Just you and I, against the world and we shall conquer the entire fucking North, and Stannis Baratheon and his men will rue the day they dared to challenge the Bolton family name. No man alive will oppose us, son."

" **HOME**?" shouted Ramsay, rising to his feet, and looking at his master, an incredulous look in his normally kind and bright blue eyes. "There _is_ no fucking home, Father! Not without _her_!" he bellowed, waving an arm to the lifeless redhead currently cradled in Theon's arms, who was crying silently.

"It was her choice, Ramsay. I could have helped her, but she… she did not love you, my boy. Not in the way that you had hoped."

" _Love_?" hissed Ramsay through gritted teeth, balling his gloved hands into fists. "What do _you_ know of love? Who have you _ever_ loved?"

Bolton's gray eyes flashed indignantly, and then something seemed to shift within the distinguished Warden and his expression softened momentarily. "I loved…I loved Domeric! And my wife…"

"You? _Love_ them?" Ramsay could hardly believe what he heard.

"Yes, as I tried to love and teach you! I thought I could change you. But you are wicked, weak! Evil!" Spittle practically flew from Roose's lips the more enraged he became.

"No," Ramsay growled, striding towards his father in two quick strides, cutting off the gap of space between the two men, leaning in so close that the tip of his nose was practically touching his master's. "You are the weak one!" He stood up straighter to his full height of 6'3, and even then, he towered over the Warden. " _I would have butchered the whole fucking kingdom of Westeros, if that would but make you love me_!" he bellowed.

Ramsay's gaze flitted to the dagger that lay in Warden Roose Bolton's hands, in a ready stance, prepared to plunge the hilt of his dagger deep into Ramsay's chest, and that was when the boy finally snapped. The throbbing pressure of the dark voices whispering evil words of malice, thoughts of harm, in Ramsay's head finally exploded, along with a blood-curdling scream and a gash on Warden Roose Bolton's neck as he seized the Warden by the column of his pale throat, the blue veins throbbing and sticking out prominently as the Warden's gray eyes went wide with fear.

A series of memories rolled within Ramsay's mind and with it, it earned his father a swift solid uppercut to the man's chiseled jawline, over and over again...

The years of abuse at Father's hand, every time his hand raised against Ramsay in anger, killing his hounds. And cobalt eyed Sansa Stark, the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to him…Sansa ascending the stairwell of Winterfell, the beautiful young redhead in a gown of rich blue velvet. Her fiery red hair kissed by the sun, like winter fire, red against such pale skin, how her skin was ticklish at the nape, her dazzlingly kind and sweet white smile.

"Y-you don't want to hurt me," Roose choked out in one last desperate pleading gash, turning his head to the side, and spitting out a mouthful of crimson blood, his white teeth stained a horrible garish red.

 _Yes, you do_ , the demons inside his head whispered, and at the sight of Theon gingerly lifting Sansa's lifeless form in his arms, his rage rekindled, and he let out a primal scream that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life and plunged his dagger deep into Roose Bolton's chest, at his heart.

Ramsay let out a growl at looked at the man's stupid, surprised eyes and gave it a deep twist for good measure, grinding his teeth in anger. He shoved his father aside as he rolled to one side, groaning, and gurgling as he bled out, his skin graying as the life force left the Warden's gray eyes.

Panting heavily from the exertion at the horrible deed he had just committed, though he desperately wanted to believe it was a necessary evil, he hung his head, bathed in crimson and torn, dirtied pale skin. His shoulders began to heave in release of his entire life's worth of anguish and unspeakable pain, his throat screaming and aching for relief. Hot tears marred his vision and behind him, he could hear the catching of Theon Greyjoy's and Hilda's breaths inhale sharply as they too, looked upon the horrifying scene before him: the Bastard of Bolton had, at last, killed his own father in cold blood.

He'd always sworn that he would, but never could the Bastard of Bolton imagined it like this.

Ramsay looked towards the entrance of the dungeon's torture chambers. A place that he had once cherished and frequented, now he abhorred this place and avoided.

Theon stood, being careful to support the girl's head as he carried her body in his arms, bridal style, a look of distraught on his kind, lined face. Theon and Hilda's faces crumpled, looking like they were fighting back tears. Ramsay rushed to take the unconscious redhead from Theon's arms. "She—she's still alive, M—Master," breathed Theon hurriedly.

"There's a pulse. We think she'll make it," exclaimed Hilda, watching as the boy's face twisted and contorted with a mixture of grief and relief.

"Here," he said immediately, gingerly shifting Sansa's form to his own, effectively relieving Theon of having to carry her weight. She weighed practically next to nothing in his strong arms.

"Be sure to support her head," advised Hilda quietly.

He shot the cook a glowering look as he, using the dungeon's cold stone wall as a brace, gently lowered himself to the floor, cradling her in his arms. He just wanted her back so badly that it ached.

To watching Sansa go from vibrant, full of life and alive, to _this_. It played repeatedly as if his brain was unwilling to let the images go and its attempts to analyze them, made Ramsay see them all over again, when he just wanted Sansa back, the way she was, for their lives to go on as they had been.

He knew the more he tried to repress it, the more it would just play again, but he couldn't help it. Streaks of fire burned his cheeks as he cried. Each new wave a hot trail of agony as he gently rocked Sansa back and forth in his arms, as if he could force her to wake up that way. Fire of shame and anger at his failure to protect the woman most important to him burned just underneath his pale skin and a deep emptiness filled his heart as the sentiments brewed over and boiled past the seams he could no longer hold together. There was no hope for a man who cried to his death, drowning himself in the tears of his personal hell. "Look what he's done to you," he wailed, burying his head in her hair.

He was grateful she wasn't awake to hear him cry like this. She'd always hated it, and it was rare that he did, and he reviled the act, considering it a sign of weakness during times of immense stress, but this definitely counted as a stressful situation, and he felt that it was highly warranted this time.

 _I'll get you out, Sansa. I promise…_ A stray tear slid down Ramsay's cheek. He was crying for her. The first time in perhaps his entire fucking life, he was crying for a woman that he loved. He cried, and Sansa wasn't even awake to mercilessly tease him about it. Ramsay gingerly raised a hand, smoothing back a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. Sansa's spirit was gentle, and her very presence was like the sun itself, and without it, his miserable life was nothing.

How could he be expected to continue, when he would never see her smile that beautiful white, infectious smile that lit him up from the inside again? Lifting her limp form just so, burying his face in her hair, allowing the sweet scents of lavender and honeysuckle to fill his nostrils, his jaw rooted shut.

Clenching his eyes shut, his teeth rooted in the effort to stay calm. But he just couldn't. The dam broke, and suddenly, he felt his tears begin to slide down his face. It was more than just crying. It was the kind of desolate sobbing that came from a person drained of all hope.

He was only vaguely aware of Hilda wrapping her arms around his middle as she knelt on the floor, doing what she could to convey some small measure of comfort. He cared not for her blood from her various cuts and bruises that soaked his tunic or stained his palms. His gasping screams echoed around the otherwise empty prison. The pain that flowed from Ramsay was as palpable as the frigid autumnal air and soon the only other being at his side was Hilda, struggling to keep her own tears silent, looking down at her. Ramsay had to believe that she was safe somehow, comfortable.

"I…" His voice broke. Ever since they'd begun listening to each other, he could not bring himself to say the three words since their first night together. It was far too intimate a saying for him to just say every day like he saw other couples do, sometimes he wondered if they truly meant it, as he felt for Sansa, and he meant every word. But if there was a chance that saying it would bring her back to him… "I love you, Sansa," he whispered, choking back a half-sob.

There. He'd said it, the thing that he never thought he would utter once from his lips in his lifetime. Hard, wracking sobs shook his frame, yet he no longer gave a damn. He was only barely aware of the sound of the cook saying something. "She…she…" But he could not make himself say the words. Not again... He didn't care if Hilda saw. The look of heartbreak in Hilda's eyes was almost too much for Ramsay to bear to look at.

Sensing Ramsay needed a minute, Hilda quickly escorted Theon out of the room, promising to fetch Maester Wolkan immediately to tend to both their wounds and give the girl a proper burial.

He let out a hiss through clenched teeth and rooted jaw as his fingers curled into fists in her hair.

Ramsay was not certain he had ever experienced grief this bad before, though now, it snuck up behind him quietly and took him under its arms in a fucking instant. He felt so fucking lost, so alone.

He was lost mostly because he had lost a part of himself that he knew he could not get her back. Yet he wanted her back so bad as his very life depended on Sansa being by his side, but it was gone.

She was gone. Vanished. At first, Ramsay thought as he buried his face in her hair, fighting back his tears, that grief was something so fucking depressing and bad that it took him ten feet under the earth, but right now, he learned that it was just the price he had to pay for daring to learn how to love someone.

His eyes flung wide open as he felt the slightest shift of movement within his eyes.

_"I love you, too."_

* * *

Sansa drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware that she was being lifted into a pair of very strong arms and carried back inside and laid upon a mattress. Their bedchambers, she recognized it by the soft blanket of goose feather down that someone—probably Ramsay—had placed over top her.

The pain throbbed in Sansa's guts, it's deep and warm, but not in a nice way. It felt like someone had their hand in there and were squeezing her organs either gently or ashard as they can. When it waned, she could move, when it returned, she could only hold still and breathe, breathe slow and deep until it has passed. Something wet and sticky was leaking out of her side and staining her gown, and she realized then it was her own blood.

Every breath she drew in felt like a nail exploding in her innards. If it wasn't for Ramsay, she'd curl right up here in Ramsay's sleeping nook and let it take her away to the next life, but she had foolishly gotten herself into this mess, and it would be up to her to get her out.

A tiny glance down at her ribcage was more than enough for her. "Oh," she squeaked, and Ramsay's head whiplashed upwards. She felt her blue eyes go wide and round with shock. A deep wound was sliced in the flesh of the right side of her ribcage. Not fatal.

At least, not if they could get her the help of Maester Wolkan, and soon. It was heavily oozing out blood and there's a bluish-purple bruise forming around it. Sansa lightly pressed her index finger against the center of the cut and sucked in a sharp breath as the pain spiraled across her body.

Colorful spots contoured the sides of her eyes and she had to bite her lip from the pain of it all. Ramsay was looking down at her as though he could hardly believe it. Sansa opened her eyes and blinked tiredly, awaking to the frigid cold of the bitter winds of winter that wafted through the air. Her body felt heavy again. She blinked again and struggled to sit up, trying to focus her gaze more than a few feet from herself as her sight slowly returned. How long had she been out?

She raised a pale hand and rubbed away the sleep that clung still to her eyes. Sansa groaned, finally fully aware of the stiffness that had settled in her bones and her joints. Yet, she did not wish to move. Stillness felt too welcoming.

So, she settled back and allowed her head to burrow deeper into the pillow that lay beneath her head, turning just so that her right cheek nestled within the downy fluffiness. Her eyes drifted shut, welcoming the beginnings of sleep again. She did not realize how tired she was until she had fallen into the oblivion of darkness from pain. A sudden intake of breath, one that was not her own and sounded like a low groan, startled her awake, her pale blue orbs flashing wide. Immediately, she searched for the source of the sound, her eyes flitting across the dimly lit room, still unable to sit fully upright.

"Sansa?" her husband questioned; his eyes still half-lidded from sleep. Still not releasing her hand, he lifted his free hand and slowly let it ghost down the features of his face, the tips of his fingers trembling slightly. Suddenly, just as his hand reached the tip of the gash, his hand suddenly stilled, and his eyes widened a fraction in realization. "Sansa!" He immediately dropped his hand from his face and shifted her limp form in his arms. "Do you want to sit up?" he asked gently, his voice soft. She nodded. "Here," he answered simply, fluffing the pillows, and gingerly helping her to sit up. She did not protest as he held her in his strong arms.

If anything, she liked it this way much better. He lifted his free hand that was not currently wrapped around her waist and smoothed her bangs back away from her forehead, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. "You're awake," Ramsay said, sounding immensely relieved. He was gazing at her as if he had never seen anything quite like her before, like…like she was the most beautiful thing in all the world. "Seven fucking hells, but the gods are kind. I thought…that I'd lost you. You're alive," he cried.

Sansa grinned widely and returned his kiss, unable to help but laugh when she pulled away, noticing his face that was much too pale for her liking. "I am. I-it would…take…more than a…stab wound for that f-fool of a Warden to get rid of me. " It was all she could say, really.

Ramsay suddenly frowned, stilling his hand that had found purchase in the back of her hair, absentmindedly playing with a few of her strands, his expression falling from joyful to pensive, his eyebrows furrowing. "Ramsay, please talk to me," she pleaded, still struggling with her arm. Whoever had stabbed her in the ribcage wanted to make sure she wasn't going anywhere for a while. She grunted in frustration with the flaring pains that shot up her arm.

She was well and truly trapped without help. "Please, Ramsay, just tell me what's wrong! I—I can help you, but you _must_ let me in. Talk to me. _I'm with you_ , remember?" she said, a fond little smile creeping onto her face. "What's wrong?"

A strong arm suddenly shot out and wrapped underneath her shoulders, lifting her up and pulling her right shoulder into the crook of another. The hand that clutched her own in an iron-like grip let go for only a moment, only to be replaced with the other, his left where she could still see the poor man was trembling. Hard. Sansa let out a tiny squeak as she found herself free of the covers from the waist up and clutched firmly in Ramsay's hold, her head tucked just underneath his chin, his chin resting on top of her hair.

She sat still for a moment, bewildered. Then, though not fully understanding why her intended was in such a state, she freed her hand from his and wrapped both arms around his neck, combing one of her hands through his coarse dark brown hair on the back of his neck in a way that was sending a pleasant tremor down his spine, what little comfort she could provide to him in this moment, she would do whatever it took.

Sansa whispered soothing remarks in his ear and gently rubbed small circles on the small of his back, trying to relay as much comfort as she could, in the hopes of calming his distress and quelling his sadness. It should have come to her as no surprise, really, Sansa realized. They both had been through so much in the past few days. It was a wonder, a true ordinary miracle that they had survived. Hot tears soaked through the shoulder of her ruined brown dress she was wearing.

Sansa briefly wondered if she had any spare clothes, but for now, decided to let it go. He needed comfort. Ramsay had gone to such lengths to care for her, to protect her, and it only seemed right that she tries to do the same for him. After all, she loved him, and it hurt to see him in such pain.

So, she held him firmly to her and rubbed circles into the small of his back and his shoulder and stroked his hair, whispering that she was fine, and all was well, though she had trouble believing her own words. She needed to hold him and love and let him know that no matter what, she would not abandon him. He needed her, just as she needed him. They would get through this and be stronger for it.

"Ramsay, stop this, this behavior as it is _not_ you. Bolton men are not weak, you've said it yourself," she whispered. Sansa was unable to prevent her voice from cracking and she inwardly winced at the sound. "I'm right here. I am here. I'm not leaving you. I am safe. I'm safe, and _you_ are safe, Ramsay." She felt his fingers grip almost painfully tight on her waist, clutching onto the back of her dress for support. Another sob found its way through him and he shook violently. She could not tell if it was fear or relief or sorrow, he was feeling. Perhaps a combination of all three, plus more.

He had gone through so much the last few days.

They all had. "I'm so sorry," he whispered hoarsely into the shell of her ear, still wrapped in her embrace, not willing or perhaps he was unable to let go of her, for fear she would vanish right before his eyes. His voice was trembling, and his body was still shaking. "All of it. I'm sorry."

With her head still tucked firmly under his chin, Sansa shook it in disagreement. "Ramsay, please don't. There is nothing to apologize for. None of this was your fault, not for an instant. The fault lies with Bolton."

He must have disagreed with her because his next words sent chills of fear through her, rendering her blood to ice. "But it is!" he snapped, feeling the very anger seep into his tones. She pulled back slightly and craned her neck upwards to look her love in the eyes. "I—if you had not known me, none of this would have happened. Sansa, you shouldn't have come here, to Winterfell. If you'd stayed away from us all, you'd be safe. You would not be hurt, because of me! You would be better off without me!" he shouted, fresh tears spilling down his face now as he spoke.

"Stop this!" she admonished; her voice came out far sharper than she intended. Sansa pulled away and though she knew he needed to hold her; she was not going to let him talk to her like this. She looked up as his red, tear-stained face and the sight nearly had her reeling back in tears of her own. Yet she held them back.

For his sake. "How _dare_ you speak to me like that?" she yelled, brushing away her own tears with a sharp flick of her finger. Sansa did not realize how shocked and hurt she was until she heard the wounded tone in her normally shy voice. "You saved my life. Were it not for you, I would be dead, Ramsay…"

If her words had any effect on him, Ramsay did not let it show. A fact that was beginning to frighten her. "I would rather you never have known me than to have you laying here injured and ill because of my existence," he spat bitterly. Now his tone was full of self-loathing.

It felt as if Sansa's heart forgot how to beat and the icy feeling from before returned tenfold. She gazed at him, wide-eyed in shock and horror. " _Excuse_ me? W—what are you saying? You don't mean that!"

"Your life," he said quietly, encircling both his arms around her in his protective embrace and reached up one of his hands to tuck a wisp of red hair behind her ear, smiling softly at her, though it did not reach his eyes. "Means more to me than my own miserable existence, Sansa. Knowing me has only caused you great pain and hardship. I swore to myself that I would be cautious, that I would not be careless and allow It to hurt you." He paused painfully, tears welling up in his blue eyes once more, and, at this moment, he lifted his head to meet her piercing gaze. "But I was not able to. I failed you. What kind of husband am I be to you if I cannot—"

"Okay, I'm going to stop you right there!" she shouted, willing for him to stay this madness, to stop talking crazy, but he cut her off.

"NO!" he shouted firmly, his eyes ablaze with anger. "It was because of me that you are hurt! Because I exist, you almost _died_! I don't deserve to have you in my life!"

The young woman gazed at him in bewildered shock for several moments. She looked as though he had slapped her, understanding just what his words meant but choosing rather not to believe them. Then, for perhaps the first time in her life, Sansa felt genuine anger and fury towards him. She was angry with him.

"Don't you dare!" she growled, her blue eyes blazing. She clenched her fists so tightly, the skin of her knuckles turning bone white. "Don't you _dare_ speak to me like that! After everything that has happened, how can you still think you are the cause of what happened here tonight? You're safe, and I am alive. That is good enough for me, my love, and so it should be for you as well. Is it not?"

"Sansa, I…" he tried to placate, reaching for one of her hands. Yet she pulled away from him, far too angry with him to be soothed.

"What was I supposed to have done? Allow Roose to kill you? Just stand by and watch?" she sobbed, shaking her head no. "No way."

"You should have stayed well away from me, Sansa…. because…because… Because I cannot lose you again. You've given me no other choice," he replied softly, no longer looking at her. Instant guilt flooded her, and Sansa looked away and hung her head in shame for making such a fuss. Yet, at the same time, she knew it had to be this way.

"Ramsay," she said slowly, raising her head, her expression much gentler and her tone no longer harsh. She leaned forward and carefully cradled his head in her hands, gently guiding him to look her in the eyes. "I am alive. I'm safe, for now," she added, scrunching her nose as a twinge of white-hot pain shot up her injured side.

Then he lifted his blue eyes to her, and with the greatest of ease, took both her wrists in his hands and pried them away from his face.

Turning the pale, tiny appendages in his hands, he said, "All my life, I have been told that the world would never see me for anything more than a monster. A creature of darkness, one content to spend his life in the shadows. How is it that you saw past that?"

Sansa opened her mouth to explain, to give him the answers he sought, yet he shook his head, implying he was not yet finished.

"When I caught you, just before you…almost died," Ramsay continued, his voice cracking and tears welling from the corners of his eyes again. He reached across the space that divided them and drew her close to him, closing off the gap and folded his arms around her. "It was the most frightening experience of my life. "I could not bear a world without you in it by my side, Sansa Stark, and never ask me to. Do not ask that of me, ever, for that is something I will not do."

Sansa sighed softly and burrowed her face in his chest, holding onto him just as tightly. "You don't have to anymore, Ramsay. I am right here with you still. I will not abandon you. Ever. I love you, remember?" she whispered, teasing him a little.

As soon as the last syllable escaped her lips, they found themselves locked in a kiss. The tender touch they shared made the room around them disappear. There was not anything else in the world except the burning flame of their love. Something about this feeling made them both feel like everything would be okay in the end.

When they broke apart, they rested each other's foreheads against the other and just sat on the bed, just holding each other. For how long, who could say? They did not speak, just sat together with their arms wrapped around the other, relaying comfort and love in the only way they knew how. Ramsay breathed out a heavy sigh of relief, but the feeling quickly faded as he glanced down at her face, still cradling her in his arms.

Her eyes have frozen over like the surface of a winter puddle, robbing them of their usual warmth. She's still in there, he knew it, but it was like she just took a huge step back from life. He wanted to reach in and tell her it wasn't hopeless, that they were going to get out of this, but even Ramsay knew she wouldn't believe him. Ramsay wanted nothing more than to rekindle her heat, but her insides were too damp with un-cried tears.

Ramsay always knew she had pain inside, but now it was visible on her face and in the seeping flesh wound that was staining her dress, and he wished it would go away. Ramsay knew that was a selfish want, people have a right to their pain, they don't ask for it - it just arrives like the gift you never wanted. But…he had won.

Lord Roose was dead and Sansa was alive, with Theon having been officially released from Ramsay's service, though Theon wished to stay in Winterfell out of loyalty to Sansa. Ramsay, sensing she needed comfort, pulled her close, and allowed her to rest her head on his shoulder.

"I'm right here, Sansa. I'm not going anywhere. I promise," Ramsay whispered, leaning over, brushing a lock of her red hair over her shoulder so he could murmur it into the shell of her ear, and then, he did something bold, but something he had wanted to do for the longest time. Looking into his eyes, Sansa saw deep pools that displayed his very soul. His lips touched her cheek. Time stopped. Her heart gave a few flutters before coming to a complete halt.

Her breath caught in her throat. Their fingers locked together, like puzzle pieces.

 _A perfect fit_ , she thought wildly. _He and I are meant for each other. He is mine…and I am his_. Forever As the soft skin of his mouth left the side of her face, the exact spot where they had come into contact burned and tingled. A hot blazing fire pulsed through Sansa's body, warming her. A tiny grin crept onto her face and her cheeks flushed a bright pink. Ramsay pulled away silently, but their eyes locked, having a private conversation of their own. Somehow, Sansa knew, as long as she was with Ramsay and he was right by her side during her healing, that she was going to be fine.

And he knew it too.

* * *

**NINE MONTHS LATER**

There was a muttering of thunder from the blackened summer night sky as the wind tore the leaves from the tree. The rain lashed down, torrential, and unforgiving. July crawled with a petty pace towards its end. The thunderstorm was coming. There were growling, ominous dark clouds billowing in from the east, gathering and looming over the balcony of Winterfell's battlement.

There was a sudden downpour and through the rain, drenches came the first long low rumbles of thunder. The wind was violent and unforgiving as it raced through the estate. Sansa wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered, smiling softly to herself as she felt her husband come up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, burying his face in her neck.

"Come inside," he whispered, his voice low and husky. Gently, he took her by her hand and led her back into the warmth of their bedchambers. She looked at him with love in her eyes. In all the months they had been married, almost over a year now, ever since that fateful conversation underneath the heart tree in the godswoods, Lord Ramsay Bolton, new Warden of the North, had treated Sansa with nothing but love and adoration in his simple gestures. He kept his promise and never hurt her, never laid a hand on her when he was angry, which was seldom. Ramsay was a simple man, but she loved that about him.

 _There's a lot about you I love,_ Sansa thought. She loved so many things about him. Sansa loved the way he smiled at her. His world-weary eyes never failed to shine with benevolence upon her whenever he looked at her with his amazing beautiful blue eyes. His eyes were genuine, encouraging, and healing. When he smiled at her, she would quite often forget her own troubles for a moment.

Sansa loved the way her husband held himself. Tall and upright. Proud but noble. He walked taller, more confident than before. He behaved like a man wholly devoted to the people. Ramsay had a quiet confidence about him that spoke clearly of his worth. Sansa often found herself straightening her posture whenever he was present, inwardly challenging herself to become more like the graceful man before her. She loved his dignity.

Complete submission and love for her. He understood that she did not need his protection, but he offered it, nonetheless. All these things he did in silence, completely unaware of how his actions spoke for his newfound sense character and much better judgment than in days past.

With him, it had never been some colossal deed or declaration that had captured her heart and caused her to love him. No. He never strove to be anything more than what he was in her eyes. He never had to. His love for her had never been about causing the butterflies in her stomach as he looked at her or causing her heart to skip a beat and feel like she was having a heart attack.

No, those things all came on their own. His love for her was expressed by the little things he did for her—things that spoke unmistakably of his love and unwavering devotion for her. It had always been simple things. That was how she knew she loved him.

Her husband noticed her looking at him, for he glanced up from the letters he had been reading and smiled softly at her, his eyes twinkling. Putting the parchment paper down, he came over and wrapped his arms around her and their unborn baby, enveloping her in a deep hug. She winced as she felt their child stir and kick for what must have been the hundredth time that night.

Sansa would be glad when their child was finally born, and she would be free of the pains in her stomach. Her pregnancy had been hard, but Ramsay had been there beside her for all of it. "You should be resting, beloved," he spoke up quietly, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "It's late."

"So should you," she responded. "But our child seems to be as much of an insomniac as you. I get little sleep these nights." The sound of a gentle rainfall on their roof as the nights were beginning to get cooler as the summer season approached had almost caused her to drift off into a slumber, but the baby had woken her. Sansa had not slept well the last few nights. It showed.

There were dark circles underneath her eyes, and her face was ashen from lack of sleep. Ramsay whispered something inaudible to her, holding her tightly and she lost herself in his embrace, leaning against him and feeling the warmth of his bare chest soak into the shift she wore. For a moment, neither spoke. Then she did. "Ramsay, is there something wrong?"

"Why do you ask?" he responded, kissing her neck.

"You've slept so little these past few nights." When he gave her a quizzical look, she added, "Your child wakes me up more often enough than I can tell. I can tell you have night terrors. You toss in your sleep and are talking to someone. What's going on?"

He flashed a charming smile at her that made her heart melt, and for a moment, she forgot her troubles. "Oh, so it's my child, now?" he teased, his teeth glinting in the light. "And here I was, thinking it wasn't."

"You are avoiding my question, Ramsay," she answered with mock sternness but softened her tone once she saw his expression. "Whatever ails you, you can tell me anything. You know this, milord," she muttered, closing her eyes for a second.

"I know," he said softly. Ramsay sighed and turned his gaze back to the balcony and watched as a bolt of forked lightning streaked across the sky in the last of the late summer night storms. Autumn would be here soon, and hopefully, by that point, they wouldn't get so much rain. Sansa counted the minutes until the rumbling thunder followed. Once it had ceased, her husband spoke again.

"My dreams have returned. I don't know what to do about them."

"The ones about your father?" she asked quietly, laying a gentle hand on her stomach. "Are they frequent?"

Ramsay nodded silently, the expression on his face saying all that she needed to know. On occasion, whenever he was worried about something, he dreamed of his father, of Roose. Sansa knew that were her parents still alive, they might not have had approved of the match, but she liked to believe that they would have, and wondered if, now that he was a changed man if her parents would like him.

She knew for a fact her mother most likely would have, and her father would have appreciated the fact that Ramsay treated her wonderfully. Despite him being happily married to the woman of his dreams, his nightmares had become rare. She knew that he must be particularly troubled for them to return and haunt him so. She had an inkling of why he was so disturbed.

Glancing down at her swollen stomach, she knew it was a present reminder of how close her time was. Another few days and their child would be born.

Sansa looked up at him, a bead of sweat on her brow. "You are nothing like your father, Ramsay. I know you will be a wonderful father to our child. Roose Bolton was every bit the bastard, whereas you are not. You are nothing like him and you never will be. Heed my words."

A smile as brief as the lightning flashed across his face at the thought of becoming a father to their unborn child. His smile faded as he stared off into the distance. She knew he would be a good father. He doted on her, and she had no doubt that when their child came, he would do the same for him or her. He rested a gentle hand on her stomach. "I know," he responded softly. "I just…" his voice trailed off as he wondered what to say next. "I just don't think I can take it if I turn out to be like him."

"You won't be like your father," Sansa reassured him. Ramsay was quiet. His father had been abusive. What had hurt him the most growing up wasn't so much the scars or the beatings, but rather, what hurt him the worst was the insecurity. The internal brokenness that only a person exposed to terrible abuse can experience. His mental scars were a tapering factor in the serenity of domestic life. They caused him agony that could only be seen on the inside. The pain that no one else but his wife saw because no one else cared.

"He wasn't always so bitter," he murmured.

"There's no need for you to defend him," she said, an angry edge to her voice. Sansa would never admit it to her husband, but she hated the fact that he still so desperately wanted his father's approval, even after his death.

Sansa could tell it still pained Ramsay whenever he spoke of Roose, and how he had treated him growing up and well into adulthood. It infuriated her to think that anyone would treat her husband in that way, even more so when Ramsay justified it. Taking a deep breath to calm her temper, she closed her eyes and tried again. He glanced down at her, his face paled in the flickering light. The lightning flashes were coming more frequently now in intensity, the thunder even closer.

"I'm not angry with you," she said in hushed tones, and Ramsay felt his face relax. "I only wish that you could allow yourself to feel it. I know that you loved your father, in your own way, despite your differences. Just as I knew, in his own misguided way, that Roose loved you. He spoke to me once of you, and I could see it in his eyes. He cared for you. He did." The two of them fell silent again, and for a while, they listened to the rain as it pounded harder and harder against the glass window.

When Ramsay spoke again, she was surprised to hear a waver in his voice. "I am afraid," he admitted. "I do not wish to become like my father, but I fear at times, I can't avoid it. I _am_ his son."

Sansa placed a gentle hand over his and stretched up to kiss his jaw. "Ramsay, you will be a wonderful father to this child," she whispered, her blue eyes twinkling. "And any other that might follow. What shall we name our son?" she asked, desiring to turn his attention elsewhere. "We should decide on a name soon if these kicking spells are anything for me to go by, he'll be arriving any day now," Sansa, planting a gentle but brief kiss on his nose.

Ramsay gave her an amused look, his smile radiating warmth and a contagious kindness that she'd always loved. "What makes you think we will be having a son? We could very well be having a daughter, my love."

Sansa rolled her eyes and laughed, her laughter music to his ears. "It still applies," she said, grinning. She could feel the baby begin to kick again, this time with even more intensity, and her husband felt his eyes widen in wonder as he moved a gentle hand across her abdomen. The kicking intensified at his tender touch, and she smiled. "You see? Our baby already likes you," she teased, smiling at her love. He smiled back, and she couldn't help but adding, "If the look on your face now is any indication, I cannot believe that loving him—or her—will be a problem for you."

Ramsay kissed her ear slightly, sending a shiver of delight down her spine. "It won't be. How did I ever manage to find a woman as wise as you, and one so beautiful?"

Sansa smiled gently. "If I am so wise, it is only because of your influence," she retorted as she turned towards him. He kissed her forehead, and then gently bent his head down until his lips captured hers in a passionate kiss. A reverberating crack of thunder startled them both, causing them to break apart in alarm. He laughed and pulled her even closer, kissing the tip of her nose playfully before resting his forehead against hers.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Sansa was puzzled. "For what?" she asked.

"For being so wonderful," came his answer.

She smiled and rested a hand against her cheek, stifling a yawn. "Only because you bring out the best in me," she replied before kissing him again. "You and I, my love, we complete each other. Never forget that, not for an instant. I'll remind you."

Her husband wrapped his arms around her waist. "You give yourself too little credit, wife. You've done me good for me and my life than you'll know," he said as he took her arm and guided her back towards their bed. She did not protest as he helped her gently get into bed and climbed in after her.

"As do you," she responded sleepily, pushing away a lock of stray hair away from his face as he propped himself up on one elbow to look down at her. Sleep was catching up with her quickly now, Sansa would never admit it out loud, but this pregnancy was exhausting her. "I love you," she murmured quietly as she closed her eyes and her breathing evened.

Ramsay gazed down at his love for a long moment, smiling as he smoothed her red strands away from her forehead. He hoped that their child would look like her.

"I love you too," he whispered as he gently lay down next to her carefully to not disturb her, draping his arm around her abdomen. "Both of you," he whispered as the thunder died down to a nearly inaudible rumble and the rhythm of the rain against the roof slowed until, coupled with his wife's soft breathing, it quickly lulled him to sleep.


End file.
